The Truth of Yesterday

Book 4 of the Killian Kendall Mysteries

By Josh Aterovis
Copyright 2026

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Chapter 13

This was definitely not good.

I froze where I was and slowly raised my hands. Getting caught was not part of my plan. Assuming I survived long enough, Chris and I were clearly going to have to work out a better way for her to warn me.

As my eyes adjusted to the light, I began to get a better look at my assailant. To my surprise, they turned out to be a small, slender Asian woman with long, glossy, black hair. And in her hands was a deadly-looking pistol, aimed directly at my chest.

"Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?" she said in a surprisingly deep and husky voice. "And don't think for a minute I don't know how to use this thing."

"My name is Killian Kendall," I said as calmly as I could manage. "Are you a police officer?"

"I'll ask the questions. Who are you and what are you doing in Paul's apartment?"

She'd said Paul's apartment, I noted, so she was most likely not a cop. Hadn't Micah mentioned something about a neighbor of Paul's that he was very close to? What was her name?

I wondered if I should lie and say I was a friend of Paul's or tell the truth. I decided that, in this case at least, the truth was the best policy.

"I'm a private investigator looking into the murder of Paul Flynn."

"You seem a little young to be a private eye."

"I can't help that."

"Who hired you?"

"Micah Gerber."

"Micah?" she asked warily, the gun wavering ever so slightly.

"Yes."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

Good question.

Just then, the name I was searching for surfaced. "Are you Sabrina?" When her eyes widened, I took that as a yes and went on. "Micah said you were a good friend of Paul's. Maybe you can help me find out who killed him."

The gun dropped a little farther, but I kept my hands in the air. I wasn't about to risk my life with any sudden moves.

"How'd you get in here?"

"Micah gave me a key."

That seemed to be what she wanted to hear. The gun dropped to her side, and she stepped back from the door.

"Will you help me?" I lowered my hands very slowly, keeping them in her view.

"I'll talk to you, but I think we should go to my apartment. If someone comes along, I don't want to be standing here with Paul's door wide open."

There was no arguing with her logic.

In the hallway, I risked a quick glance toward the stairwell and saw a wide-eyed Chris peeking around the corner at us. I motioned for her to remain hidden.

The door next to Paul's was standing open. Sabrina stepped to one side and motioned with the gun as if to say, "After you." She wasn't going to give me the chance to get behind her — a smart move on her part had I been someone dangerous.

Entering her apartment, I found myself in a large open space that served as both living and dining room. Straight ahead was the kitchen, and off to the right was a closed door that I assumed led to a bedroom. The place wasn't large, but Sabrina had decorated it tastefully with a blend of antique furnishings and Asian art.

"Have a seat," she said casually, as if she entertained guests at gunpoint all the time. Then again, for all I knew, perhaps she did.

I perched gingerly on the edge of her scroll-back Victorian sofa and watched her expectantly. She sat across from me on an uncomfortable-looking carved wooden chair and looked back at me.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked after a few awkward moments.

"Er, uh, no, thanks." It wasn't a question I had expected.

"So Micah asked you to find Paul's killer?" She fiddled with the gun in her lap.

"Yes. Um, do you think you could set the gun down? It's making me a little nervous. I promise I'm not going to hurt you, but if it makes you feel better, you can set it on the table right next to you where you can grab it if you need to."

"Oh." She looked down at the gun in surprise, as if she'd forgotten she was holding it. "This?"

She aimed the gun at my chest and pulled the trigger before I could react. I flinched, but nothing happened.

"It's not real," she said. "I bought it at a women's safety conference I attended a few years ago. It's just meant to scare people. I don't like real guns."

I stared at her in disbelief. "What would you have done if I'd attacked you?"

She blinked as if the thought had never occurred to her. "Hit you with it?"

"Do you even know any self-defense?"

"Yes. What does any of this have to do with Paul?"

"It doesn't have anything to do with Paul, but if you're going to run around pointing a toy gun at people, you'd better be able to take care of yourself."

"I don't make a habit of it," she said defensively. "I heard someone going into Paul's apartment — these walls are thin — and went to check. Now can we get back to Paul, please?"

"You're right, I'm sorry. It's really none of my business."

"It's okay..." She gave me a hesitant smile. "I guess I sort of made it your business when I pointed it at you. For the record, I'm a second-degree black belt in Taekwondo. So Micah hired you? Do you know him or did he just hire you?"

"I know him. We've been dating for a few months."

Her mouth formed a little "o" of surprise. "So...wait...you're dating Micah and you're investigating the murder of his ex-boyfriend?"

I gave her a wry grin. "That about sums it up."

"Wow. Either you're a better person than I am, or you guys have a weird relationship."

"The latter, most likely."

"How is Micah?"

"He's...good. I guess. Paul's murder shook him. I don't think he was completely over him."

She frowned. "Did you know Paul?"

"No, I'm not from around here. Can you tell me about him?"

"Where do I start?" She sighed. "He was a sweetheart. I miss him so much. I keep thinking I'm going to run into him in the hall. It hasn't really sunk in yet that he's gone."

"Were you good friends?"

"Yes, very good friends. We talked pretty much every day, and I don't just mean in the hallway. He'd come over for a drink in the evening if he wasn't working, or I'd go over there. Sometimes he'd call me at work just to chat."

"Where do you work?"

"I work for the Pentagon."

"What kind of person was Paul?"

"He was a good person. One of the nicest, most thoughtful guys I've ever met. He was always looking out for me, always there for me. When I got dumped by a boyfriend completely unexpectedly, he was the one who held me while I cried myself to sleep. When the train I was on crashed, he was the one who came to the hospital and stayed with me. He was probably my best friend. He didn't deserve to die — especially like that."

She broke off and visibly tried to regain her composure.

"I talked to Razi Akiba earlier today. Do you know him?"

Her expression changed as if she'd bitten into something rotten. "Oh, I know him, alright."

"I take it you don't like him?"

"No, I don't."

"Any particular reason?"

She thought a moment before answering. "I'm not really certain. There's just something about him I don't trust. I always got the impression that he was using Paul, although I couldn't quite explain why or for what. I know he tried to break Paul and Micah up when they were still dating."

"He did? Did Micah know?"

"Well, I never told him. I talked to Paul about it, but he wasn't concerned. He said they had a solid relationship and it didn't matter what Razi said or did. It was well before Micah started talking about wanting to move away."

"Why did he try to break them up? Did he want to date Paul?"

"That's what I thought at the time. As far as I know, though, when Micah left the city and Paul was available, Razi never made a move. It always struck me as strange. If he was so hot for Paul, why didn't he go after him when he was single?"

"Maybe he's the type who's only interested in what he can't have."

"He does strike me as that type, but still..."

"Or maybe Razi was dating someone else by then."

"That's possible. I certainly don't keep up with his love life. I don't really spend much time in his company. Only if it was one of Paul's rare get-togethers."

"After Micah left, did Paul date anyone else?"

"Not seriously. He always said he was so busy with work that he didn't have the time or energy to date socially. I always suspected that it was hard, dating. You know, with his...line of work. Plus, I think he was still hung up on Micah. The breakup was hard on him."

"So there's no angry, jilted ex-boyfriend out there?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Did he have any enemies?"

"No. That's what's so scary about all this. It seems so random, and yet...the way he died... It feels so personal. Do you know what I mean? It seems like a murder with a lot of...passion. Does that make sense?"

"Passion?"

"Yes, strong emotion. Maybe I listen to too many murder podcasts, but somehow, it doesn't feel...premeditated? Like, there are so many ways to kill someone if you just want to get rid of them — poison, shooting, push them off a balcony and say they fell. Strangling somebody just seems like such a heat-of-the-moment thing to do. It's a very personal way to kill. The victim is actually in your hands as their life leaves them."

I shuddered at her words. "You sound like you've given this a lot of thought."

"Oh, I have. Trust me. I've lain awake almost every night since it happened, wondering what it was like for poor Paul in those last seconds, trying to figure out why on earth someone would want him dead. I just... I don't understand."

"And you probably never will. Most murder is senseless. There's no way you can understand it."

"I just wish I could do something to help."

"You can answer my questions and tell me everything you remember."

"I'll do my best."

"Great. Were you in a position to know who came to his apartment?"

"I didn't spy on him or anything, but yeah. Living next door to him and being friends, I saw people come and go. Like I said, the walls are paper thin in this building, so even if I didn't see them show up, I could hear when he had someone over."

"Who came?"

"He didn't have many friends. Besides Razi, mostly just...well..." She broke off and seemed unsure of how to continue.

I remembered earlier when she'd avoided mentioning Paul's "line of work."

"I know Paul was an escort," I said, just in case that was the hang-up.

That must have been it, because she relaxed slightly. "Oh, good. Well, besides Razi, it was mostly just his clients. He did in-calls and out-calls."

"Meaning?"

"In-calls are when the clients come to you, out-calls are when you go to them."

"So a lot of clients came here?"

"I wouldn't say a lot..."

"But some came here?"

"Yes."

"Did any come more than once?"

"You mean like regulars?"

"I guess so, yeah."

"I'm sure there were regulars," she said, "but I didn’t pay much attention. It wasn’t really any of my business, you know?" She paused, eyes flicking upward as she thought. "Still, there was this one guy I seemed to see fairly often. I assumed he was a client, though I can't say that for certain."

"Can you describe him?"

She screwed up her face in concentration. "That’s the thing — he’s hard to remember. He wasn’t, like, strikingly handsome or ugly. Just...average. Completely ordinary."

I groaned inwardly. Ordinary people were the hardest to describe. No one remembered the middle of the bell curve. People like that disappeared into the background, like the insurance rep at Novak’s office — pleasant, bland, forgettable.

I pressed on. "Hair color?"

"Brown? Or maybe gray. Somewhere in between, I think."

"Eye color?"

She shook her head. "No idea. I’m not being very helpful, am I?"

I gave her a tight smile but didn’t answer. "What about height or build?"

"Average. Average height, average build."

Of course.

"Any distinguishing features? A scar? Tattoo? Jewelry?"

Another head shake. "Sorry. I just never looked that closely."

"Are you even sure it was the same guy each time?"

"Yes," she said with certainty. "That much I noticed. He came around enough that I recognized him, even if I can’t describe him. He had this...vibe. Quiet. Shy. Kind of politely awkward when I'd run into him in the hallway or in the elevator."

I noted that down. It wasn’t much, but it was something. "Okay. Anyone else stand out? Maybe someone who didn’t seem to belong? Any other regulars?"

She hesitated. "Well... Razi’s been showing up the past few weeks with this kid — really young-looking. Pretty boy. Curly red hair, big blue eyes. I don’t know where he found him. Probably bought him off some crack whore."

I winced. "We’ve met. His name’s Tad. He’s a homeless kid Razi took in."

Her eyebrow arched, skeptical. "At what cost? Razi doesn’t do charity. He doesn’t do anything out of the kindness of his heart — if he even has one."

I didn’t comment. I wasn’t about to unpack Tad’s situation with her.

"Did Paul ever confide in you?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I don’t think Paul confided in anyone, not really. He was...private. But I guess he probably told me more than most."

"Had you seen him recently? In the weeks before his death?"

"Same as usual, I think. Maybe a little less. I was super busy — my sister’s wedding, I was maid of honor." She paused. "Honestly, now that you mention it, I don’t think we talked much toward the end. He hadn’t invited me over in a while."

"Do you have any idea why? Was something bothering him? Did he seem withdrawn?"

She frowned, then shook her head slowly. "I honestly don’t know. I was so wrapped up in my own stuff...I didn’t notice anything different." A flicker of realization crossed her face, followed by a wave of guilt. Her voice trembled. "God, what kind of friend am I? What if something was wrong and I just didn’t see it? What if he was in danger and I was too distracted to help?"

Her voice edged toward panic, her eyes starting to gloss over.

"Hey," I said gently but firmly. "You can’t blame yourself. We don’t know what happened. Maybe it had nothing to do with you — or anyone. People drift sometimes. Maybe Paul was busy, too. Or preoccupied. Don’t jump to conclusions until we have more information."

She nodded, sniffling. "I just— If he needed me, I would’ve been there. I would have done anything."

I wasn't sure who she was trying to convince more, me or herself.

"I believe you," I said, soothingly. "The only person responsible for Paul's death is whoever killed him. And you can help me catch them."

"You really think I can?"

"Absolutely. So...can you think of anyone, no matter how unlikely, who might’ve wanted him dead?"

She bit her lip. "I wish I could. Paul was...he was one of the good ones. I just can’t imagine anyone hating him enough to kill him."

"What about Razi?"

She gave a dismissive wave. "No. I mean, he’s a sleazeball, sure, but he’s not a strangler. If he wanted you dead, I think he’d prefer something more...subtle. Poison, maybe. Or he’d just ruin your life from the shadows. Strangling feels too personal. Too messy."

"So nothing stands out?"

She shook her head, defeated. "No. Nothing. I’m sorry, I really wish I could help more."

"You already have," I said, even if I wasn’t entirely convinced it was true.

I wasn't coming up with an abundance of suspects so far. Or motives, either, for that matter. I needed to get back to the physical evidence.

An inkling of an idea began to form. "But there's more you can do..."

"Like what?"

"You've been in Paul's apartment, right?"

"Many times."

"Would you walk through it with me? You can tell me if anything is missing. Razi said he didn't think so, but you'd know better than I would."

"But we shouldn't be in there. It's a police crime scene."

"The police don't seem very eager to solve this crime. We might discover something that would help me find Paul's killer. Besides, they're done with it by now."

"What if we get caught?"

"I have a contact on the police force," I said, hoping it was true.

She was quiet for what seemed like an eternity. I could almost see the wheels turning in her head.

Finally, she took a deep breath and looked into my eyes. "Fine. If you really think it'll help, let's do it."

We crept out of her apartment like a couple of cat burglars after she checked to make sure there was no one in sight. I caught a glimpse of movement in the stairwell, so I knew Chris was still on duty — whatever that was worth.

I unlocked the door again and Sabrina quickly slipped in, with me close behind.

As before, the first thing I noticed was the unpleasant odor. In addition to mildew, I also detected a faintly rotten smell.

"Ugh," Sabrina said under her breath, as she reached for the lightswitch. She knew where it was, so, this time, there was no fumbling around in the dark.

She gasped as the room lit up.

I didn’t blame her.

The apartment looked like a war zone. I’d never seen anything like it — not in real life. The layout was a mirror image of Sabrina’s, but the resemblance ended there. Where her place was polished and curated, like a photo spread in Dwell, Paul’s had been meticulously, almost vindictively, destroyed. This wasn’t the aftermath of a robbery. It was personal. Violent. Rage-filled.

Razi’s description hadn’t even scratched the surface.

The couch — a sleek, mid-century piece with a wooden frame — had been gutted. Its cushions were torn to ribbons, their insides torn out and tossed across the room like snowdrifts of stuffing. Shattered ceramic and glass littered the floor, gleaming dangerously among the fabric guts.

The artwork was in even worse shape. Dozens of paintings and drawings had been ripped from the walls, their canvases slashed or crumpled, frames cracked and twisted. Jagged shards of glass stuck out at odd angles, catching the light like broken teeth. Several of the paintings had clearly been originals — oils and watercolors, probably expensive. Whoever did this hadn’t just wanted to take things. They’d wanted to erase him.

Even the television — a flatscreen that looked practically new — was almost split in half.

Against one wall, a large aquarium sat on a wrought-iron stand, its thick glass face now spiderwebbed with cracks and gaping holes. The water had long since emptied onto the floor, soaking into the wool Persian rug beneath it. A few limp, lifeless fish still lay in the puddles, their scales dulled, their bodies stiff. The air was rank — a wet, rotting stench of mildew and decay, overlaid with something coppery and faintly organic.

I wrinkled my nose. Between the soggy carpet, the dead fish, and whatever the humidity had cooked up in here since the crime, the place reeked.

Sabrina didn’t speak. She just stared, taking it all in — the violence of it, the ruin. I could see the questions forming behind her eyes, the same ones that had been haunting me since I started this case.

This wasn’t a robbery.

This was a message.

Or a breakdown.

Or both.

"Oh my God." Sabrina whispered. "Why didn't they clean this up?"

"I don't even know where to begin..." I spoke in a low tone.

It seemed somehow inappropriate to raise my voice, as if we were in a mausoleum. I hoped I didn't sound as overwhelmed as I felt.

"How did the police find anything? Wouldn't they have to collect all this as evidence or something? They always do on TV."

"I don't know. Maybe they aren't done here after all. Don't touch anything."

"I already touched the light switch," she said, a hint of panic entering her voice. "I should have never agreed to this."

"Calm down. I'll fix it." I pulled my sleeve down over my hand and carefully wiped the plastic light switch clean. "There. If you have to touch something, make sure you put your shirt over your hand. And for God's sake, don't take anything."

"I'm not touching anything else. I think we should leave."

"We're here now. We might as well look around."

"I'm not moving."

"Can you tell if anything's missing?"

"How should I know? How can you tell anything in this mess?"

"What did he have of value?"

She took a deep breath. "His electronic equipment." That was all plainly visible amidst the rubble on the floor. "His art collection." Also readily identifiable. "And his coin collection."

"Do you know where he kept that?"

"In the bedroom."

I started making my way carefully across the room, glass crackling under my feet. As I passed the kitchen, I noted the destruction continued in there. All the dishes had been pulled from the cabinets and shattered on the floor.

"This couldn't have been quiet. The whole place is wrecked. You said the walls are paper thin. Why didn't anyone hear something?"

Sabrina's shoulders drew up. "I wasn't home." She sounded defensive.

"I didn't just mean you. What about the other neighbors?"

"Mrs. Gupta across the hall is legally deaf. She wouldn't have heard if the killer was smashing up her own apartment. When she watches TV, I can hear it as clearly as if I were sitting next to her on her couch."

"And the other neighbor? There are four apartments on this floor."

"That's Kent. I don't know what he does, but he's away on business more than he's home. You could ask him, but chances are good he wasn't here when Paul was..."

Her eyes skated across the wreckage and she shuddered.

"How about the apartment beneath us?" I said. "If anyone had been in, they would have had to hear a lot of bumps and crashes when all these things hit the floor."

"You're probably right, but I have no idea who lives there."

I made a mental note to check in with Mrs. Gupta, Kent, and the person downstairs before I left.

Moving cautiously toward the bedroom, I grasped the doorknob with the hem of my shirt, trying to avoid leaving fingerprints. The door creaked open slowly. I reached into the dark room to find the light switch—

And then everything went sideways.

My breath hitched in my throat. And stayed there.

A sudden, overwhelming wave of terror crashed over me. Cold and suffocating.

I couldn’t breathe.

My hands flew to my neck instinctively, clawing at invisible fingers that seemed to tighten with every passing second. Panic surged through me as my vision tunneled. My chest burned. My knees buckled. I stumbled back, scraping my shoulder against the doorframe as the world began to dim around the edges.

Somewhere, distantly, I heard Sabrina shouting my name, but the sound was muffled, as if I were underwater — or slipping out of the world entirely.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over.

Air rushed into my lungs in huge, ragged gasps. I collapsed against the doorframe, drenched in sweat, shaking uncontrollably.

Sabrina was in front of me in an instant, her eyes wild. “What the fuck was that?” Her voice cracked, shrill and close to hysteria.

“I...I don’t know,” I panted. “I couldn’t breathe. It felt like—”

“Felt like what?” she demanded, her voice rising.

“Like I was being strangled.”

She froze. Her eyes widened, and she took an unconscious step back. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” I said, still gulping air. “It felt like...like someone wrapped their hands around my throat and just squeezed. Hard.”

Her face drained of color. She glanced into the dark bedroom, the unlit space now ominous, predatory.

“That’s where they found him,” she whispered. “That’s where Paul’s body was. In the doorway.”

My skin prickled, and every hair stood on end. I remembered Razi telling me where he'd found Paul's body.

She wrapped her arms tightly around herself and took another step back from the door. “What the hell is going on?” she asked, but it wasn’t really a question. Not to me. Not to herself. She was trying to hold something at bay — logic, fear, reality.

I didn’t have an answer. But whatever had just happened, it was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. Far more terrifying than my encounters with Amalie.

Something in that room remembered.

And it wanted me to know.

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