The Truth of Yesterday
Book 4 of the Killian Kendall Mysteries
By Josh Aterovis
Copyright 2026
Chapter 20
I was still brooding over Jake the next morning.
Something about that photo of Neal in Jake’s room wouldn’t let me go. The implications twisted my gut in ways I wasn’t ready to examine too closely. Still, I’d promised Kane we’d work on costumes today, and I didn’t want to let him down again. That said, I figured I might be able to squeeze in a couple quick interviews with Jake’s old friends first. I wasn’t expecting much—high school gossip tends to be shallow and fleeting—but it was a loose end that needed to be tied off.
I checked the time. It was late enough to call without being rude. Craig answered on the second ring. His voice was cautious, maybe a little guarded, but not unfriendly.
"Yeah, I remember Jake," he said after I introduced myself and explained why I was calling. "I guess I can meet you. Give me, like, two hours?"
"That works. Text me the address and I’ll be there."
Danielle was equally reachable. Her tone was brighter, more open, and she sounded genuinely curious about why someone wanted to talk about Jake now. I told her I’d drop by about an hour after my meeting with Craig, give or take. She said she’d be home.
With both appointments set, I suddenly had some time to kill—no pun intended. Neal had promised to send the files overnight, and with any luck, the package might have arrived already. On impulse, I decided to swing by the office and check.
As I climbed the front steps to the agency, I was surprised to catch a glimpse of someone slipping out the door to the back stairs — just a flutter of a tan trench coat and a quick flash of silver-blonde hair. Novak’s client. The mysterious, birdlike woman who’d been the subject of so much intrigue.
I paused at the top of the stairs, watching the door click shut behind her. She moved like someone who didn't want to be noticed—but I noticed. That only made me more curious.
Inside, I found Novak leaning over my desk, scrutinizing a handful of photographs. He straightened the instant he saw me and swept them up in one practiced motion, like a magician making evidence disappear.
"Was that your client I just saw sneaking out the back?" I asked casually.
"Yes, it was," he said, matching my tone.
"She’s here awfully early for a weekend meeting."
"I could say the same about you."
I crossed to my desk and leaned against it. "So...why was she sneaking out? Avoiding paparazzi? Angry ex? Federal agents?"
"She wasn't sneaking," he replied.
I simply raised an eyebrow.
Novak sighed. "She’s in a sensitive situation. She needs discretion."
"In other words, she was sneaking."
"She wasn’t sneaking," he repeated with a straight face, then rolled his eyes. "Okay. Fine. She was sneaking."
I gestured to the stack of photos in his hand. "And those are...?"
"None of your business. If they were, I’d have shown them to you."
"Fair enough. You’re getting good at secrets, Novak."
He gave me a tight, unreadable smile. "Don’t you have cases of your own to be working on?"
Then, without waiting for a response, he retreated into his office and shut the door behind him with just enough force to make a point, but not enough to qualify as a slam. A classic Novak move — firm boundaries, theatrical flair.
I chuckled to myself. Teasing him was almost too easy. Still, my curiosity about the elusive client — and the photos — was definitely piqued. But I’d already pushed that envelope far enough for one morning.
There was still no sign of the package from Neal when I got to the office, and I was just about to leave when a delivery guy showed up with perfect timing. He was wearing a uniform from a company I'd never heard of and carrying a small, nondescript box under his arm.
"Killian Kendall?" he asked.
"That's me."
"Please confirm your identity."
I hesitated for just a second, then took out my wallet and flashed my license. He scanned it quickly, tapped something on the screen, then held out a sleek tablet and a pen stylus.
"Sign your name."
Ignoring the stylus, I scrawled a crude approximation of my name using my finger, and he finally handed me the package. It was heavier than I expected — about the size of a glasses case with no markings.
“Thanks,” I said.
He gave me a tight smile. “Have a good day.” Then he was gone.
I examined the box. The label had a PO Box as the return address and no sender listed. Neal, cautious as ever. I carried it to my desk and grabbed a letter opener and gently pried it open. Nestled in the black foam was a flash drive — but not just any flash drive. This one had a keypad built into it. A small LED screen lit up, flashing: ENTER PIN.
I stared at it for a moment, then picked up my phone and dialed Neal.
He answered on the second ring. “Mr. Kendall. I trust the courier found you.”
“He did. Very cloak and dagger.”
“I take precautions,” Neal said smoothly. “I assume you’ve found the drive.”
“I have.”
“You’ll need to enter the code. It’s 2401.”
I punched it in. The LED flashed green, then the drive unlocked with a faint mechanical click.
“What’s 2401?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Neal said. “Just a number I remember.”
"Well, thanks. I appreciate the quick turnaround."
"I'm a man of my word," he said smoothly. "Be careful with what you find. Some of it may be more dangerous than you expect."
"Noted."
I stared at the now-accessible drive in my hand. This little device held a list of secrets someone had possibly killed to protect. I had a feeling they might be willing to do it again.
Neal was a lot of things — paranoid, manipulative, morally flexible — but he wasn’t stupid. Trusting a device from someone like him without checking it first would be a peak rookie mistake. I set the flash drive down on the desk like it might explode and pushed my chair back.
I started to slide it into my laptop but paused as a thought suddenly occurred to me.
First rule of digital paranoia: never plug unknown hardware directly into the machine you actually care about. I dug through my office closet until I found the ancient, wheezing laptop Novak had given me when I first started. It hadn't taken long to replace it since it could barely load a web page without having a small existential crisis, but that wasn’t the point. The thing was practically air-gapped by virtue of being too old to function with most modern networks. Perfect for containment.
I booted it up, a slow, painful process, and, while it churned, I grabbed my phone and pulled up a quick about recognizing hardware trojans.
Before I even thought about plugging the drive in, I ran a hardware scan using a USB analyzer I’d downloaded ages ago and promptly forgotten about. It wasn’t perfect, but it could at least tell me if the device was trying to broadcast anything, draw unusual power, or initiate a hidden auto-run script. I connected the flash drive through a cheap USB data blocker — basically a plastic chastity belt for ports — and watched the diagnostic window populate.
Nothing. No unexpected signals, no rogue pings, no attempt to overwrite the boot sector. That was…comforting. But “comforting” didn’t mean “safe.”
Just to be sure, I grabbed a small Faraday pouch from my drawer. I'd teased Novak when he gave it to me, saying he was turning into a conspiracy theorist, but right then, I was grateful. I slipped my actual laptop inside and sealed it shut. If something on the drive managed to jump networks or phone home, at least it wouldn’t be reaching anything important.
Finally, after triple-checking every precaution I could think of, I plugged the drive into the sacrificial laptop. The machine whirred like it was considering dying on the spot. Then a directory window opened.
No fireworks. No smoke. No “you’ve been hacked” pop-ups.
Just a single folder labeled "Paul Flynn."
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Maybe Neal was telling the truth. Maybe.
Either way, whatever was on this drive wasn’t meant for just anyone. And now it was mine to uncover — carefully, and with both eyes open.
Time to find out just how deep this rabbit hole really went.
I clicked on the folder. Inside were several files — PDFs and spreadsheets neatly named and organized.
I opened the file marked CLIENTS_RECURRING and skimmed the spreadsheet. As Neal had told me, Paul had avoided repeat customers when possible, but there were seven names that showed up more than twice. Each entry included basic contact information—email, phone, address—as well as notes on where the meetings occurred: Paul’s apartment, various hotels, or the clients’ homes. Payment method was noted for each transaction: some paid cash, others used wire transfers or online platforms.
All seven records were detailed and complete. I made a mental note to prioritize interviews with them.
Switching back to Paul’s main file, I found his banking information, including the name of his bank and partial account details. A quick search gave me the bank’s public customer service number. I jotted it down on a sticky note and slipped it into my notebook. I'd need to call during business hours — and figure out exactly what I was going to say before I did.
That was a problem for Monday.
In the meantime, I decided to tackle Paul’s client list. The first four didn’t answer — not too surprising given the hour. It was still early enough that some might be sleeping off the night before. I made a note to try again later.
Client number five answered, but hung up the moment I identified myself as a private investigator calling about Paul Flynn. Charming.
It wasn’t until the sixth call that I actually got someone to stay on the line.
“Are you Manuel Rodriguez?” I asked, trying to mask my surprise that he hadn’t immediately bailed when I said I was a PI.
“Yes, I am. May I ask what this is concerning?”
“I’m calling about Paul Flynn.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Paul who?”
“Paul Flynn. He was an escort. I believe you might have known him.”
“Oh — Paul.” His voice warmed with recognition. “I thought I knew him pretty well, but he never mentioned a last name. That’s not really something that comes up, you know? Other things come up, sure, but not that.” He laughed again at his own joke.
I forced a polite smile even though he couldn’t see me. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Hmm...maybe a month ago? I met someone recently, so I haven’t really needed—”
According to Neal’s records, Manuel had last seen Paul about five weeks ago. Close enough. I didn’t care to hear the rest of his romantic adventures, though, so I cut through the small talk.
“Did you know Paul passed away a few weeks ago?”
“What?” The amusement drained from his voice instantly. “Paul is dead? I didn’t know. Was it...was it an accident?”
“No,” I said gently. “He was murdered. In his apartment.”
There was a long, stunned silence. “Murdered?” His voice jumped an octave. “Oh my God! No, I — God, I didn’t know."
“You hadn’t heard?”
“No. If I had, I wouldn’t have been making stupid jokes and talking about my damn love life. Jesus. How...how was he killed?”
“The police are calling it a robbery gone wrong.”
“But you wouldn't be investigating if you believed that.”
“My client doesn’t believe it. That’s why they hired me, to look into what really happened. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”
“Yes, yes — of course. Anything I can do to help. Paul...he was a good guy. I may not have known his last name, but he always made me feel...seen. Safe.” His voice caught with emotion.
As Manuel spoke, I glanced at his client record. Six visits over six months. Not exactly an epic romance. The man didn't even know Paul’s last name, but now he was waxing poetic about their connection. But grief was grief — or something close to it.
“How long had you been seeing Paul?” I asked, testing him.
“Off and on for about six months.”
That matched the file. Good so far.
“And how many times during that period?”
“I think...five?”
Once again, close enough.
“What was he like?”
“Professional,” he said after a moment’s thought. “In a good way. He always put me at ease. Made sure I was comfortable. And satisfied.” A small, awkward laugh. “He never rushed. Always remembered little things I liked. I guess that’s part of the job, but he did it so naturally.”
“And how did he act with you? Especially toward the end — anything unusual?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Did his behavior change? Did he seem...different? Distracted?”
“Change? No, not really.” He hesitated, then added, “He always seemed calm. I never got the sense he was in trouble. If something was wrong, he hid it well.”
“And he never seemed scared? Nervous?”
“No, not that I noticed. Nothing that set off any red flags.”
“Any idea who might’ve wanted to hurt him?”
“None,” Manuel said, his voice lower now. “He was...kind. Quiet. Not the type to make enemies.”
“Can you think of anything at all that might be relevant? Any names he mentioned, or odd things he said?”
There was a pause. “No, I wish I could help more, but he never shared much about his personal life. He didn’t talk about himself. I guess I didn’t really know him at all. Still, he helped me more than he probably realized. He was better than therapy — and more fun. Gave me the confidence to start dating again. Made me feel good about myself. That meant a lot.”
“Alright. Well, if you do remember anything, here’s my number.” I rattled off my cell and was about to end the call when he stopped me.
“Wait. How did you get my number? How did you know I saw Paul?”
I was ready for that. “Paul kept a journal,” I lied smoothly.
“He did?” He sounded more surprised than suspicious. “And he...mentioned me?”
“Yes.” I replied, then, on impulse, added, “He seemed fond of you.”
The line was quiet for a few seconds, then Manuel said softly, “Thank you.” He hung up before I could say anything else.
There was one number left on Neal’s list that I hadn’t called yet, but I decided to hold off for now. That last conversation with Manuel had taken more out of me than I’d expected. I hadn’t really considered the idea that an escort might offer something deeper than just a transactional service — but for Manuel, Paul had clearly provided something more: affirmation, confidence, even a kind of healing. That hit me harder than I cared to admit.
I glanced at my watch and realized I’d spent longer at the office than I'd meant to. Swearing under my breath, I grabbed my things and headed for my hometown, keeping my speed just below the limit the whole way. I'd learned my lesson after my fender-bender with Novak, and I wasn't about to wreck my new car.
I was only a few minutes late arriving at Craig Martin's house. He lived in a middle-class neighborhood so uniform it was like a suburban Xerox machine had spat it out. One gray-blue-beige box after another lined the street, differentiated only by minor cosmetic flourishes — a small porch here, a gable or shutter color there. Everything was tidy, manicured, and muted, like someone had washed the entire neighborhood in bleach and called it a day.
Still, the Halloween decorations tried their best to liven things up. Jack-o’-lanterns glowed on almost every stoop, flickering orange in the growing dusk. A few houses went all in — paper ghosts swung from trees, witches crashed into shrubs, cobwebs blanketed bushes and banisters. One yard even boasted a full DIY cemetery, complete with foam headstones and a fog machine coughing out a sickly haze in the background.
I pulled into the driveway of Craig’s house, which was sporting a jointed cardboard skeleton taped to the front door. Before I could even kill the engine, the door creaked open and a thin teenage boy stepped hesitantly onto the porch.
He peered out at me, his posture wary but curious, a nervous tilt to his narrow shoulders, his hands fidgeting at his sides.
I stepped out of the car slowly and gave him what I hoped was a friendly, non-threatening smile, lifting one hand in a small wave.
"Are you Craig?" I asked.
He nodded.
“Thanks for agreeing to talk to me,” I said, pausing at the bottom step. I wasn’t sure if Craig planned to have our conversation through the screen door or if he’d eventually invite me in. He stood there, hovering just inside, the door slightly ajar, like he hadn’t quite decided yet whether I was trustworthy — or whether he regretted agreeing at all.
While I waited for his verdict, I took a moment to study Jake’s former friend and, according to Kane, maybe more than that. A secret admirer — or not so secret, depending on how you looked at it.
Craig was about five-ten or eleven, slim but not scrawny, with the kind of narrow build that teenage boys sometimes try to hide under hoodies. His waist was trim, his jeans snug, and his blue T-shirt hugged his chest in a way that told me he either didn’t realize how good he looked or was trying hard not to care. His skin was clear and golden, the kind of complexion that looked almost too smooth to be real, like something out of a teen drama on Netflix. He wore rectangular glasses that framed a pair of large, dark eyes — eyes that looked at you like they were already trying to figure out if this conversation was going to end in embarrassment, heartbreak, or both. His light brown hair had a soft wave to it, falling just far enough into his face to give him that carefully disheveled look, although I had a feeling it wasn’t entirely intentional.
He could’ve been striking, maybe even hot, if he had just a little more confidence — or maybe just believed he had any at all. But the way he held himself, shoulders slightly hunched inward, arms tight to his body, gave him away. He looked like he wanted to shrink into the doorframe, disappear into it entirely.
After a beat of silent assessment, he seemed to decide I wasn’t here to sell him something or mock him for being “flamey,” as Kane had put it. He opened the screen door and stepped aside to let me in.
“We can talk in here,” he said, his voice quiet, careful. There was a slight lisp on his sibilants, barely noticeable, but it added something soft to his speech, something delicate. “My parents aren’t home, they went to the farmers market.”
I stepped into the front room, which was neat and faintly scented with whatever fabric spray suburban moms seem to buy in bulk. Everything in the house had that lived-in, lower-middle-class comfort to it — clean, beige carpet, framed photos on the walls, a well-loved couch, a stack of magazines on the coffee table. A big bowl of Halloween candy sat on an end table, a few wrappers already tossed beside it. I wondered if Craig had eaten his way through half of it himself.
A family portrait hung over the couch — his father was white, his mother Black. A much younger Craig dressed in his Sunday best sat on his mother's lap in the picture, smiling shyly for the photographer.
I turned back to him and watched him fold himself into the couch, tucking his long legs under him and watching me with uncertainty. I understood what Kane meant about him. There was something decidedly feminine about this boy.
“Thanks,” I said again. “I won’t take up too much of your time.”
He gave a slight shrug and gestured toward the chair. “You can sit, if you want.”
I took the seat opposite, careful to keep my posture relaxed, my expression open. I was here to ask questions — but the last thing I wanted was to make Craig feel like he was on trial.
“So,” I said gently, “I’m hoping you might be able to help me.”
Craig looked down at his hands, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.
He nodded an acknowledgment, and I hoped I wasn’t going to have to drag every word out of him. “I know you don’t know me or anything—”
“Actually, I know who you are,” he said, cutting me off and catching me completely by surprise. “Everyone at school does. You’re kind of a legend.”
“Me?” I squeaked in a decidedly unlegend-like manner.
“Yeah. I mean, everyone’s heard about how you caught that murderer a few years ago. And that you killed him. I wasn’t even in high school yet, and I still knew. And then you came out, and—” He cut himself off, blushing.
I made a face. “Trust me, going after that psycho wasn’t heroic. It was reckless. I almost got myself — and people I cared about — killed.”
“But you saved Jake’s life.”
“Maybe his life wouldn’t have been in danger if I’d left it alone.”
“But then the guy would’ve gotten away with it.”
I let that hang, unwilling to argue anymore. “As for coming out,” I added, “that wasn’t brave. It was just something I had to do.”
“It’s more than a lot of people do,” he said softly, eyes shifting away.
“Maybe that’s because they don’t have anyone to support them the way I did.”
He looked up at me then — something flickering behind his eyes — curious, maybe even cautious hope. “So...you came here to ask me about Jake?”
"Yes."
His face darkened. “Then you're probably wasting your time. I doubt I can help. I don’t really see him anymore. He acts like he’s too good for me now.”
“What do you mean?”
“When school started this year, Jake went out of his way to be my friend. Like, just out of nowhere. He was really nice to me. Same with Danielle. For like a month it was great. Then, just like that, he ghosted. Wouldn’t return my calls. Started avoiding me at school. Stopped sitting with us at lunch.”
“Do you know why?”
He shook his head. “I’ve thought about it a lot. I keep wondering if I did something wrong.”
“Do you think Danielle might know?”
He shrugged. “You'd have to ask her. We were only really friends because of Jake. We don’t talk much now. She probably thinks I’m the reason he ditched us.”
I was getting more sadness than substance from Craig, but that sadness seemed real — heavy and familiar. He looked like someone who’d had a piece of himself quietly pulled away, and no one noticed or cared. Jake's treatment of him just served to reaffirm his lack of worth in his own eyes.
“You know I’m a private investigator now, right?” I asked. He nodded. “What I’m about to tell you needs to stay just between us, okay?”
His eyes widened. Another nod.
“I think Jake may be involved in something illegal. Someone close to him hired me to look into it. I was hoping you could help me understand what’s going on. Do you have any ideas, even if they sound ridiculous?”
He hesitated. “Drugs? Maybe. I mean, he liked weed. Not that's weed's a big deal, but I don’t know what else it could be. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry." My heart was breaking for this kid. Maybe I saw myself in him, but I couldn't just walk away leaving him with that sad, puppy-dog expression in his eyes. "Look, for the record, I don’t think you did anything wrong. I suspect Jake is the one doing something wrong.”
His eyes lit up for a second — like he needed to believe that as much as I needed to say it.
“I need to talk to Danielle now,” I said, “but before I go, I want to leave you something.” I pulled a business card from my wallet, scribbled my cell number on the back, and handed it to him. “This is none of my business, really, but if you ever need someone to talk to...I’m a pretty good listener. Maybe you have plenty of support already, but just in case...”
He stared down at the card like it was a foreign object. When he looked up, his eyes were shiny.
“I don’t have any friends anymore,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “And my parents...they’re busy. They wouldn’t care about my stupid problems.”
“They’re not stupid,” I said gently. “If they matter to you, they’re important. And I bet your parents would care.”
“They wouldn’t understand,” he interrupted.
“Maybe not. But maybe I would.”
He carefully tucked the card into his pocket, folding his hands in his lap. “Thank you.” It had the ring of polite dismissal, but I wasn’t quite done.
“I meant what I said. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate.”
He nodded, and I started to stand.
“They call me faggot,” he said suddenly.
I sat back down. “Who does?”
“Everybody. At school.”
“Why?”
He gave a bitter little laugh. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m not a jock. I’m not tough. I suck at sports. I look at guys just a little too long. I walk like a girl…”
He trailed off, breathing hard, trying not to fall apart.
“There’s nothing wrong with any of that.”
“Try telling that to the guys at school.”
“I remember what it was like,” I said, and his head snapped up. “I wasn’t always a legend," I said dryly. "My early years in high school? Total awkward disaster. Shy. Uncoordinated. I was lucky because I hung out with jocks, so people mostly left me alone, but the minute I started hanging out with Seth and figuring out who I was? They turned on me. Fast.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. That part doesn’t make it into the school legend, huh? But it’s true. It sucks now, but all that stuff isn't important in the long run. After high school, you'll never even see most of those idiots again."
"So what did you do? How'd you get through it?"
"Well, I had...Asher." It still hurt to even say his name. "We started Rainbow Alliance. And the school started cracking down on harassment, taking things more seriously. It might not be perfect, but, trust me, it’s a lot better than it used to be. You should talk to someone — a guidance counselor, the principal...”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“You don’t have to do it alone. There are protections. Legal ones. Even if you’re not out — or not sure — they can’t harass you for how they perceive you. Can I ask you something personal?”
He looked anywhere but at me. I waited. Eventually, he gave a small nod.
“Do you think you’re gay?”
Another long pause. Then a nod. A tear slipped down his cheek.
“Have you told anyone?”
He shook his head.
“Well, now you have. And I won’t tell anyone else. You can trust me.”
His eyes finally met mine. They were full of quiet panic — but also, maybe, the tiniest bit of relief.
“You’re not alone. You don’t have to be afraid. You can talk to me — about anything.”
That cracked the dam. He broke into tears, covering his face with his hands. I sat frozen for a second, unsure what to do, then slid over and placed a tentative hand on his shoulder.
He turned toward me, burying his face in my chest. I wrapped my arms around him, feeling how hard he was shaking.
After a while, the sobs quieted. He pulled back, red-faced and sniffling.
“I’m sorry. I can’t believe I just did that.”
“Don’t be sorry. Pressure builds. Sometimes it just needs to blow.”
He gave a small, embarrassed laugh and nodded. After a beat, he glanced at his watch and frowned.
“You should probably go. My parents will be home soon, and I don’t want to have to explain...this.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
He stood. “Yeah. Better than I’ve been in months. Telling someone...it helped.”
“Good. And yes — you can still talk to me. Any time.” I rose too. “All my info’s on that card. You can reach me day or night. And you should check out Rainbow Alliance. My brother Kane runs it now. It’s a great place to meet people who get it.”
He looked doubtful. "What if I get teased for going?"
"Sounds like you get teased already. What have you got to lose? You should go."
He looked thoughtful. “Yeah, maybe I will.” Then, suddenly, he hugged me. “Thank you, Killian.”
“You’re very welcome, Craig.”
He let go, then gave me another quick hug at the door. I laughed and hugged him back before stepping out onto the porch.
As I drove away, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Craig stood in the doorway, watching until I was gone, his arms wrapped tightly around his thin body.
I might not have uncovered much for the case, but, somehow, it didn’t feel like a wasted trip.
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