The Truth of Yesterday
Book 4 of the Killian Kendall Mysteries
By Josh Aterovis
Copyright 2026
Chapter 11
Saturday morning, I woke from violent dreams of medieval carnage — grimy, hollow-eyed men hacking, slashing, and clubbing each other to pieces on a gore-slick battlefield. I sat up feeling like I’d taken a flail to the skull.
I had a suspicion that Judy's cryptic tea-leaf predictions of impending battles were to blame. They were permanently lodged in the back of my brain.
Rolling out of bed with a groan, I stumbled to the bathroom. Not exactly the auspicious start I’d hoped for on day one of investigating the murder of Micah’s ex. A hot shower and some deep breathing made me feel marginally more human. I forced down a slice of toast, despite my stomach’s protests, and hit the road.
The drive up Route 50 was as uninspiring as ever. The Eastern Shore is famously flat. Parts of it are incredibly beautiful, but none of those parts come anywhere near that particular stretch of highway. The one highlight, as always, was the towering span of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge — a man-made marvel slicing through the sky, daring you not to look down.
I arrived at the New Carrollton Metro station by late morning. Since it’s the first stop on the Orange Line, the train was nearly empty when I boarded, and I had no trouble finding a seat. I settled by a window, watching the world blur past as the train thundered along the tracks, pausing every few minutes to gather more passengers.
With nothing to do but wait, my thoughts drifted — inevitably — to my so-called “gifts.”
I still wasn’t sure what to make of them. They didn’t feel like a gift at all. More like a door someone had cracked open in my mind without asking, leaving me exposed to things I wasn’t ready to see — flashes of emotion, flickers of insight, things that weren’t mine. Dead people. Just the thought of it was exhausting. And frightening.
There was this unspoken expectation — from Judy, from Seth, even from myself — that I should do something with them. Hone them. Control them. Let them guide me. But what if they led me somewhere I couldn’t come back from? What if tapping into whatever lived inside me opened a floodgate I couldn’t close?
A chill skated down my spine despite the warm hum of the train. After what I'd experienced with Amalie, I wasn't sure I ever wanted anything to do with them again. And yet, ignoring them wouldn’t make them go away. I’d already tried that. Besides, according to Judy and Seth, they could also be dangerous if left untrained.
So, here I was: stuck between fear and responsibility. I knew deep down I had to face the truth of what I could do, however uncomfortable that truth might be. But embracing it meant giving up the illusion of normalcy I’d worked so hard to maintain. It meant changing — maybe even becoming someone I didn’t recognize.
The train rattled on, now packed with people who had no idea what kind of storm I was trying to hold back. I looked out the window and forced myself to take a breath. Whatever these gifts were, they were part of me now. And like it or not, they might be the only thing that could help me make sense of what was waiting on the other end of this ride.
Finally, I pushed those thoughts aside and distracted myself by pulling up the email Micah had sent the night before. It contained everything I’d asked for — names, numbers, addresses, a quick character sketch of everyone Paul had been close to. I’d already read it twice, but I skimmed through it again, more out of nervous energy than necessity, while mentally reviewing my game plan for the day.
First on the list was Razi. According to Micah, he'd been one of Paul’s closest friends — and the one who’d found him. He’d given Micah his number at the club, and Micah had included it in the dossier. My plan was to call, reintroduce myself, and — if luck was on my side — convince him to meet.
After that, I planned to check out Paul’s apartment. I had Micah’s old key tucked in my pocket and could only hope it still worked. If it didn’t... well, I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. I wasn’t quite sure what I’d do—bluff the landlord? Pick the lock? Stage a distraction? Either way, I’d figure something out. What worried me more was Chris. I had no idea how she’d react to the idea of poking around a murder victim’s apartment. I could only hope she’d go along with whatever I said and not try to take over the investigation or get squeamish about the whole thing.
I snapped out of my thoughts as the train pulled into the cavernous underground of the Smithsonian station. The arched concrete ceiling, with its honeycomb pattern, seemed designed to swallow the roar of the trains and absorb the endless shuffling of tourists. I joined the slow-moving current of passengers heading toward the escalators and let myself be carried upward into the blinding light of the National Mall.
Emerging at street level, I paused for a moment to get my bearings. The Capitol loomed at one end of the Mall, the Washington Monument at the other, both gleaming against a backdrop of hazy summer sky. The broad expanse was flanked by the city’s crown jewels: the National Gallery, the Air and Space Museum, the Museum of Natural History, the American Indian Museum, and the stunning silhouette of the National Museum of African American History and Culture. I’d always loved this part of the city. It felt like standing in the heart of something larger than yourself.
But I didn’t have time to be a tourist. Somewhere out there, Chris was waiting.
I set off toward the towering obelisk and began circling its base, scanning the crowd for my goth guide. Despite the sheer number of tourists milling about, it didn’t take long to spot the only person dressed head-to-toe in black.
Before she noticed me, I took a moment to size her up. She was about my height—slim but with the wiry posture of someone who could probably scale a fire escape without breaking a sweat. She wore a loose, long-sleeved black band shirt advertising a group I’d never heard of, paired with baggy cargo pants and worn black combat boots. Her hair was dyed black and styled in a choppy cut—short in the back, longer in front, with chin-length bangs swept dramatically to one side. Her skin was strikingly pale, a stark contrast to the inky palette of her clothes, and unless my eyes deceived me, she wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup.
She looked more like a ghost than most of the actual ghosts I’d encountered.
So much for blending in.
"Here goes nothing," I mumbled under my breath and started toward her.
As soon as she spotted me approaching, her steely gray eyes locked onto mine. “You’re Killian, right?” she asked the moment I was close enough to hear.
I nodded. “And you must be Chris.” I offered my biggest smile, but her sober expression didn’t even twitch. “I’m impressed you recognized me from my terrible description.”
She gave a small shrug. “You could’ve just said ‘cute, gay, blond kid.’”
I blinked in surprise. “Wait — I’m gay?”
She blinked right back. “You didn’t know?”
I fought the urge to laugh. “No, I meant — yeah, I knew. But how did you know?”
She shrugged again. “Just a hunch.”
“Do I—what? Act gay?”
She frowned. “How does one ‘act gay’?”
Great. We were definitely not off to a smooth start. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Forget it. Sorry about that. Look, I’m really glad you’re helping me with this case. I appreciate it.”
“No problem,” she said. “My dad thinks this will make me change my mind about becoming a cop. Among other things.”
I raised an eyebrow but wisely kept my questions to myself.
“I’m old enough to make my own decisions,” she said. “And I’ve wanted to be a cop since I can remember.” Another shrug. “How old are you, anyway? You look younger than me.”
“I’m eighteen.”
“We’re the same age then. You in college?”
“Freshman year.”
“Me too. Where?”
“Pemberton U.” When she gave me a blank look, I added, “It’s in Salisbury, on the Eastern Shore. What about you?”
“Georgetown.”
My stomach sank a little. My ex went to Georgetown. Great. Just my luck if they were besties.
She must’ve noticed my expression because she quickly added, “Anyway, we should probably get to work. Want to grab coffee while you fill me in?”
We found a coffee shop, grabbed some drinks and a table, and I outlined everything Micah had told me. It wasn't much so it didn't take long.
"I'm hoping your dad can fill in some blanks at some point," I said as I finished up.
“Well, it’s not his case, so I’m not sure how much he’ll actually know, but maybe he can dig up something useful. So...how did you get involved in this anyway? You're a long way from home. What’s your connection?”
I hesitated, the weight of the truth catching me off guard. “Uh, well...Paul, the victim, was my boyfriend’s ex. Micah asked me to look into his death because the cops aren’t—” I stumbled to a halt as I realized her dad was one of the cops I was about to criticize.
Her face darkened instantly, a shadow crossing her features. “No, don’t stop. Actually, I can fill in the blanks myself. The police aren’t exactly falling all over themselves to find whoever killed the fag, right?”
“Something like that,” I muttered, unable to meet her eyes.
She shook her head, frustration and anger evident in her tone. “Figures. That’s exactly why I want to be a cop — to stop this kind of shit from happening. It’s disgusting the way some lives just don’t seem to matter. Black people, trans and queer people, women...Goddess forbid you're all three, or even just any random combination.”
Her passion took me by surprise. I kept my expression neutral, not wanting to make her regret opening up.
She took a deep breath, shifting gears. “Anyway, enough of that. What’s the plan? What are we doing?”
I cleared my throat, grateful for the change in subject. “The plan, right. First, I want to talk to Razi — he was one of Paul’s close friends. I’ve got his number, so I’ll try to get him to meet with me. Then I’d like to take a look at the apartment, see the crime scene, if possible. And maybe talk to your dad. Novak said he wants me to check in with him regularly?”
She nodded firmly. “Sounds like him. He probably just wants to keep tabs on me."
"I think it's Novak's way of keeping tabs on me, actually."
She shrugged. "Let’s start with Razi, then.”
I pulled out my phone, dialed the number, and listened as it rang… and rang. Just as I was about to give up, a male voice finally answered.
"'ullo?" It sounded as if I'd woken him up.
"Is this Razi?"
"No."
I waited a beat. "May I speak to him?"
"He's not here."
The voice was vaguely familiar, and I realized it must be the kid from the club. What was his name? "Is this Tad?"
A pause. "Who's this?" He suddenly sounded more awake, and more than a little startled.
"Do you remember last week at Michelangelo? I was with the guy Razi knew. You talked to me in the lounge."
"Um...it's a little hazy."
I was going to have to work for this. "My name is Killian. My friend's name is Micah."
Another pause. "What do you look like?"
"Blond hair, blue eyes."
"Still nothing."
I gritted my teeth and took a deep breath. "You told me that my boyfriend used to be an escort."
"Oh. Yeah. Now I remember. You're cute."
I bit back a sharp retort and took another deep breath instead. "Thanks," I managed. "Look, it's very important that I speak to Razi. Do you know when he'll be back?"
"Not really. He's on a job. What do you need to talk to him about?"
"It's kind of personal. I'd rather tell him about it."
"Does it have to do with your boy? What's his name? Mikey?"
"Micah, and no...not exactly."
"Oh. Well, does it have anything to do with Paul?"
"You knew Paul?"
"Kinda. I wasn't around that long before he was killed, but I met him a few times."
Novak always told me being flexible was the most important attribute of a good investigator. It would probably be useful for an escort, also, but that was beside the point. It was time to change my plans slightly. "Could I talk to you?"
He was quiet for a minute. "I dunno."
"I'm not going to cause trouble. I promise. It's really important."
"Why?"
"Micah wants to know what happened to Paul."
"He was killed."
"We know that. He wants to know why."
"I don't know that."
"But you might be able to help me figure it out."
"You? Shouldn't that be up to the— Shit! You're not the cops, are you?"
"Me?" I laughed. It was somewhat forced, but I didn't think it was noticeable, especially to someone who didn't know me. "No way. I'm a private investigator."
"Aren't you a little young?"
"Well, I'm technically still in training, but I've already helped solve three murders." I saw Chris's head snap up at that remark, her eyes widening with a new respect for me. "Besides, the cops don't give a damn about Paul. To them, he's just another gay escort, and as far as they're concerned, the city's better off without him. If I don't find out who did this, Paul might never get the justice he deserves." I was laying it on thick, and could only hope it would prove effective.
There was dead silence on the other end of the line and, for a moment, I thought I'd laid it on too thick and he'd hung up. Then, finally, he spoke. "Okay. If I give you directions, can you find me here?"
"Yes," I replied without hesitation. I signaled to Chris to get her attention. "I'm going to repeat the address back to you so I'm sure I have it right, okay?"
I spoke for both of their benefits. I wanted Chris to pay attention so that she could tell me if she knew where the address was, and I wanted Tad to know why I was repeating everything. Chris nodded her understanding. I was beginning to think we might work well together after all.
"Okay." Tad rattled off an address, which I repeated right back.
Chris nodded. She knew where it was.
"Got it," I said. "You'll be there for a while?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Okay, good. I'll see you soon then. And, Tad? Thanks."
"Yeah. You might want to hold your thanks until after you talk to me. I told you I didn't know him that well."
"Every little bit helps."
"We'll see."
I turned to Chris as I ended the call. "And we're off."
"We'll take the Metro." She stalked off purposefully in the direction I'd come from, leaving me to scamper behind. "It's not a great neighborhood," she said when I caught up to her.
"Dangerous?"
She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. "All cities are dangerous, that's not the point. But most of D.C. has been pretty gentrified at this point. They just keep displacing the poor and disenfranchised out to the fringes. You could say we're heading right into the fringes. We might stand out a little, which means we might draw unwanted attention. If it comes to that, I'll protect you. Just keep your eyes open and stay near me."
I must have given her a startled look, because she broke out in the first genuine smile I'd seen. "My dad's a cop. I've had every type of self-defense training you can imagine. I may not look all that tough, but, trust me, I am."
Something in the tone of her voice made me inclined to believe her.
We got our fare cards figured out and boarded the train. We would have to backtrack to L'Enfant station and switch from the Orange Line to the Green. The trip wasn't really that far, and we didn't talk much.
I found myself distracted, turning over in my mind how Chris had pegged me as gay right away. What had given it away? I was just wearing a plain pullover and a decent pair of jeans—I hadn’t thought my clothes were particularly telling. Maybe it was how I walked, or the way I styled my hair? I’d never really given it much thought before, but now it bugged me. Being too memorable could be a problem for an investigator.
“Gaydar,” Chris said suddenly, breaking the silence.
I gave her a blank look.
“That’s how I knew you were gay when I saw you,” she explained.
I eyed her warily. There was something almost unsettling about how she seemed to have read my thoughts.
“I’ve been sitting here thinking about it,” she continued, “and I figure if we’re going to work together, we need to trust each other, right?”
I nodded cautiously.
“Well...I’m gay too.”
“Oh, wow.”
I frowned, wondering if my own gaydar might be malfunctioning.
Chris misread my expression and quickly added, “That’s...not a problem, is it?”
“No! Not at all,” I said quickly. “I was just doubting my investigative skills. And maybe my gaydar, too.”
She laughed softly. “I think the whole Goth look throws people off the lesbian stereotype. And it’s not usually the first thing I tell people, you know. Not that I’m closeted or anything — I’m pretty outspoken. About a lot of stuff, for that matter. My dad calls me an activist, and it drives him crazy.”
“So you’re out to your dad?”
“I’m out to everyone, but yeah, my dad and brother were the first people I told. That’s actually another reason I think Dad wants me working with you on this case. He thinks if I get exposed to the ‘dark side of the gay lifestyle’ — his words, not mine — then maybe I’ll change my mind and decide to be straight or something.” She shrugged. “I tried to tell him prostitution isn’t just a gay thing, and being gay isn’t a choice anyway, but he’s older and pretty set in his ways. Not homophobic, really — just old-fashioned. I think he still holds out hope that it’s just a phase.”
She sighed, a little bitterly. “But honestly, I’m as sheltered as he thinks. Growing up gay in the city with a cop for a dad, you learn a lot — whether you want to or not.”
With that she hopped up and started toward the door. "This is our stop," she called over her shoulder.
I hurried to join her just as the train came to a halt. After we left the station, Chris stopped to get her bearings.
"Where do we go now?" I asked.
"I'm not sure."
"But I thought—"
"I know it's this general area. Don't worry, I'll find it."
She dashed back into the Metro station, leaving me gaping after her. She reappeared a minute later and headed off confidently down the street. I scrambled after her with a feeling I'd be doing that a lot.
"I got directions," she said when I fell into step next to her.
"Yeah, I figured that," I said.
She walked as if she knew exactly where she was going, her ground-eating stride causing me to trot along. It seemed as though I had to take two steps for every one of hers. At that rate, it didn't take too long to find the address Tad had given me. Like most of the buildings in this area, the apartment building was run down and a little shabby.
Chris stopped at the main entrance. "He's on the second floor?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Okay, so what's the plan now? Do I go in with you or do I stand guard?"
I hadn't thought that far ahead. "There are advantages to both," I said slowly. "If you go in with me, you might pick up on something I miss, but if you stay outside, then you can get help if something goes wrong."
I didn't even want to think about the sorts of things that might go wrong, but I'd been in situations without backup before and I knew how important it could be.
"On second thought, maybe you should be the lookout."
"Sounds like a plan. I'll follow you up to the second floor and keep out of sight until you're in the room, then I'll stay near the door. If anything goes wrong, you just scream like a banshee, and I'll get help."
I nodded and crossed my fingers that we wouldn't have to put that plan into action. I led the way up the dingy stairwell. Chris stayed on the stairs, according to plan, while I rapped on the metal door.
"Yeah?" came a muffled response from the other side.
"Tad? It's Killian Kendall, we talked on the phone?"
There was a pause long enough to allow him to peer through the peephole before he released the locks. The door opened a few inches, still attached to the frame by a thick chain. From the two-inch slice of him in view, he was bare-chested and tousle-headed.
"Are you alone?" Tad asked.
"Um, yes," I fibbed.
The door shut for a second, then reopened just wide enough to allow me to slide in. Tad quickly hooked the chain back in place, locked a deadbolt, closed a security latch, and shot the locks home. I began to feel a little trapped and fought a rising sense of unease.
He turned to catch my uncomfortable expression. "I've lived here less than a month, and I've already been mugged twice," he commented casually. "This building has lousy security...as you probably noticed since you just waltzed in here. You could say I'm a little paranoid."
"I, uh, guess I can't blame you."
I tried not to stare at him as he led me into the living area. He was wearing nothing but a pair of tiny gym shorts, and I had a feeling he'd only pulled those on to be polite. His body was pale, slender, and taut with just the slightest hint of definition. His reddish-blond curls were springier than the last time I'd seen him, making the halo effect even more striking. Once again, I was struck by his ethereal beauty.
"You can sit down." He curled up on the black leather couch in the center of the room, folding himself onto the cushions with a cat-like grace that I envied. I felt like a Neanderthal in comparison as I plopped self-consciously into a matching armchair.
Tearing my attention away from him, I took in the apartment. It was elegantly sparse, with lots of black and chrome. Not much to offer in the knick-knack department aside from a few generic but tasteful objets d'art, including a carved wooden staff artfully displayed alone on a table as if it were a museum exhibit. In fact, the entire space felt a little like a museum, or like a nice hotel. There was very little real personality to the place. I suspected Razi had either rented the apartment already decorated or given some interior designer free rein without ever putting his own stamp on the room. There was a slight hint of incense hanging in the air, a spicy scent that conjured images of street bazaars and ancient temples.
I turned my attention back to Tad to find him studying me with the same care I'd given him and the room.
"You don't look like a detective," he said.
"I'm a private investigator," I said, playing the semantics game. "What do you think a detective should look like?"
He grinned. "Fatter, older, and uglier."
I laughed. "Then I guess I should be flattered that I don't look the way you expected."
His eyes sparkled with humor. "Do you go to Michelangelo's very often?"
"Last week was my first time."
"What did you think?"
"It was fun, but it kinda got ruined."
The sparkle faded. "Oh, yeah. Sorry about that."
I shrugged. "Well, that's what I'm here to talk about."
"Right. So shoot."
"You said you'd met Paul?"
"A couple of times."
"What was he like?"
Tad thought a moment before answering. "Quiet. He was friends with Razi, but they're really different. Razi is loud and intense and likes to be the center of attention. Paul would rather sit in a corner and just watch everything. You'd forget he was there sometimes. But everybody seemed to like him."
"Somebody didn't," I said before I could stop myself. "What did he look like? I never met him." The question wasn't really relevant to anything, but I was curious. It would also help Tad loosen up if I started with questions that were relatively easy to answer.
"He had blond hair with blue eyes and was pretty small and...I dunno...quiet somehow. He was really cute if you took time to look at him, but most of the time if there were a lot of people around, you just kind of missed him somehow."
Apparently, Micah had a type. The description was admittedly vague, but he could have been describing me. "Do you have any pictures of him?"
"I don't think so."
"Can you tell me anything about him besides that he was quiet? What kind of a person was he?"
"I didn't know him that well. Razi seemed to like him, and Razi doesn't have many guy friends. I think he feels threatened by them, like he sees them as competition. He didn't seem to feel that way about Paul." He fell silent, and I allowed him a minute to think.
Another one of Novak's interrogation tips was to let silence sit there. Most people abhorred a vacuum almost as much as nature and would eventually feel compelled to fill it. Sure enough, eventually Tad started talking again.
"Paul was always really nice to me. He seemed...concerned about me, I guess. Always asking how I was doing and telling me if I ever needed a place to go I could stay with him. And not like in a creeper sort of way, you know? He wasn't hitting on me. It was like he genuinely cared. I think he and Razi might have even fought about me."
He stopped as if he'd said more than he'd intended.
That caught my attention. "Why would they fight about you?"
"Um..."
His gaze drifted off somewhere over my shoulder, and I could tell he was searching for something to tell me — probably a lie. I decided to head him off.
"How do you know Razi? Is he your boyfriend?"
"I guess you could say that."
"Well then what would you say?"
He shrugged. "Razi took me in when I didn't have anywhere else to go. I was living on the street, sick, hungry... He took me to the doctor, fed me, and let me stay here."
"He sounds like a saint."
Tad made a face. "Not exactly. In exchange, he gets sex whenever he wants it."
I raised an eyebrow. "And you're okay with that arrangement?"
"It's better than the streets. And let me tell you, Razi knows what he's doing. So I guess it's not all that bad."
"Are you gay?"
He seemed surprised by the question. "What?"
"Are you even gay?"
"Yeah." I could tell he was still so surprised by the blunt question that he'd answered truthfully.
"How'd you end up on the street?"
He looked away. "Why does that matter?"
"You never know what will matter."
At first I didn't think he was going to answer, but finally, without ever looking in my direction, he began to speak in a low voice. Once he started, it was as if a dam had burst, the words flowing out of him until he'd spilled the whole story.
"I grew up in this little bumfuck town in Virginia. My mom died giving birth to me, so it was just me and my dad. I think...in some twisted way, he blamed me for her death. We were never close, but he took care of me, you know? There was always food in the house. I had clothes. He wasn't neglectful. It just felt like he was doing it out of some...sense of responsibility or something.
"I’ve known I was gay for a long time — since I was twelve or thirteen, maybe earlier. I used to mess around with my best friend when we had sleepovers. I don’t know if he was gay too, or just curious. We never talked about it. It just...happened. And then it stopped. He started dating girls, but I still liked guys.
"I got on the apps, met this guy who lived here in D.C.. He was a little older than I was and lived here in D.C. He was older than me. Not by a lot, but enough. We started seeing each other, but I kept it quiet. Real quiet. He’d come visit when my dad was working late, or I’d say I was hanging out with friends and sneak off to meet him.
"Then one night, my dad came home early. I don’t even remember why — something about a busted water heater at work. And he walked in on us. Right in the middle of...you know.
"It was bad. He went completely berserk. Screaming, throwing things, saying shit I don’t even want to repeat. My ‘boyfriend’ — and I use that term loosely — bolted. Didn’t even try to help. He just vanished. I never saw him again.
“And my dad...” Tad shook his head, his voice catching for the first time. “He beat the shit out of me. I really thought he was going to kill me. He never touched me after that night, but I always felt like it was seething just under the surface, that he could crack at any second. He barely spoke to me, wouldn’t even look at me. I knew he hated me. Every day I stayed there felt like I was suffocating."
He paused and finally looked at me, just for a second, eyes rimmed red but dry.
"So I left. I spent a few nights with a friend, a girl from school, but her parents said I couldn't stay. I didn't know where to go, but the guy I'd been dating lived in D.C., so I hitchhiked here like a complete idiot. Didn’t even know his address. Hell, I barely knew his real name."
He took a shaky breath and looked down at his hands.
“I've never been so scared in my life. Every night I thought something bad was gonna happen. And most nights, it did. One night I was begging for money outside a gay club. Not Michelangelo, some gross, seedy place with a much older clientele. Sometimes, the guys would give me a little money if I...did certain things for them. Or let them do certain things to me."
I've never been so scared in my life.
"Anyway, the next thing I know there's this guy telling me to come on. He looked a little younger, better dressed, but still. I figured he thought I was a hustler — which I guess I pretty much was — but what the hell? I’ll do what I have to, get a warm bed for the night.
“But instead of taking me to a hotel, he brings me here. Tells me to sleep on the couch. Says if anything’s missing in the morning, he’ll track me down and cut off my dick.” Tad let out a weak, incredulous laugh. “I didn’t sleep at all. I kept waiting for him to do something, to try something. But he didn’t. Next morning, he cooked breakfast. Took me to a doctor. Then shopping. And...I never left.”
"So...that was Razi? He just...took you in?"
"Yeah. Just like that. For a few days, I kept thinking I'd wake up and it would all just be a dream...but then he started asking for his payment, and I knew it wasn't."
"Did he hurt you?"
Tad blushed. "Not so I minded."
"Did you feel forced?"
He shrugged one shoulder. "I knew it was what I had to do if I wanted to stay here. He never said it in those exact words, but I knew. And it's not just sex. I also clean the apartment, wash the dishes, do the laundry, make appointments. And some other stuff."
I wondered about the "other stuff" but didn't press it.
"Did Razi ever try to contact your father?"
"He never even asked me my story."
“What about Paul?” I asked gently.
Tad tensed, his wariness returning. “What about him?”
“Did he ever ask about your story?”
He hesitated, clearly weighing whether or not to trust me. Finally, he gave a small nod. “Yeah. He’s the only other person I’ve ever told. Besides you.” He frowned. “I don’t even know why I told you.”
“Is that what he and Razi fought about?”
He gave a half-shrug. “Maybe. I don’t really know.”
That was probably as much as I was going to get out of him on that subject, but it didn’t take a detective to put the pieces together. If Paul really was the good guy everyone said he was, he would have had issues with Razi’s living arrangement with a runaway fifteen-year-old. Maybe Paul wanted to contact Tad’s father — or worse, the authorities. I doubted Razi would’ve taken kindly to that. He might not have wanted to lose his personal houseboy… or get arrested as a pedophile.
“How old are you again? Fifteen?”
He nodded.
“Are you in school?”
He rolled his eyes. “No. I dropped out.”
“And how old is Razi?”
That question struck a nerve. Tad suddenly sat bolt upright, his back stiff as a board, eyes wide with fear. “You can’t turn him in,” he said quickly, his voice rising. “Please, you can’t do that. I know it’s not perfect, okay? But I’m fine. I swear. It’s better than living on the street. I can’t go back to my dad. That’s where they’d send me. You don’t know what it was like. I can’t go back.”
“There are other options,” I said, though even I didn’t fully believe it. “If your dad abused you, they wouldn’t just toss you back into that situation.”
He shook his head, panicked. “Yeah, right. ‘Other options’ like a foster home? I’ll pass. Look, I’m almost sixteen. That’s the age of consent, right? In a couple months, it won’t even be illegal.”
His voice cracked on the last word, and in that moment he looked heartbreakingly young. Scared. Desperate.
“Is Young even your real last name?” I asked softly.
The flash of surprise across his face gave me all the answer I needed. But he still responded, defiant.
“What difference does it make? You’d just use it to track down my dad. Or the cops. I swear, if I get sent back, I’ll run away again. And maybe next time there won’t be a Razi. Or maybe…” He swallowed hard. “I'll kill myself before I go back.”
“Tad.” I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “I’m not going to turn him in. I promise. Not unless I have to. But I’m being honest with you — I’m not comfortable with this whole setup.”
He crossed his arms. “Well, it’s none of your business anyway.”
Realizing I'd done a great job of shattering any sense of rapport we'd built, I tried to reverse the damage.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to make you feel unsafe. I just…” I exhaled. “You know, my dad beat me up too when he found out I was gay. Then he kicked me out.”
Tad blinked. I saw the flicker of curiosity in his eyes, despite his resistance. “Where’d you go?”
“I was lucky. My friend’s dad took me in. He’s gay too.”
“Your friend or the dad?”
“Both, actually.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Whoa. That’s kinda badass. Must’ve been nice — like having a gay brother or something.”
“It probably would’ve been, yeah. But my friend was murdered. That’s...actually what got me into the whole PI thing.”
His eyes widened, the snark gone. “Oh. Damn. I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “It’s been a couple years. Doesn’t hit quite as hard anymore.”
“Your mom still around?”
“She left my dad not long after I moved out. But yeah, she let me stay with Adam — my friend’s dad. I still live with him.”
"Do you guys have...an arrangement?"
It took me a second to realize he meant like the one he had with Razi.
"No! I mean, he's more of a dad to me than mine ever was. And he has a boyfriend. And I have a boyfriend."
I was rambling.
He nodded slowly, his whole body beginning to uncoil. He curled back into himself on the couch, less like a kid preparing to bolt and more like a cat preparing to nap. I was just about to ask my next question when someone started pounding on the front door.
Tad jumped like he’d been hit with a jolt of electricity.
“Honey, I’m home,” a voice sharp with sarcasm called from the hallway. “Let me in.”
“Shit,” Tad hissed. “It’s Razi. I thought you'd be gone before he got back."
“Will he be mad that I’m here? I mean, I came to talk to him.”
“I don’t know,” Tad said, glancing nervously at the door as the pounding continued.
“Just let him in. I won’t say a word about anything we talked about, okay?”
Tad gave me a searching look, then nodded. “Okay.”
He padded toward the door, and I stood up, preparing for whatever came next. Best-case scenario: time for interview number two. Worst-case? Chris and I would be testing that emergency plan very soon.
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