Reap The Whirlwind
Book 2 of the Killian Kendall Mysteries
By Josh Aterovis
Copyright 2026
Chapter 13
When I left work that afternoon, I drove directly to the police station. I did not pass Go. I did not collect $200.
The lobby was a little more crowded for my second visit. There was a hispanic family crowded onto the couch, a woman with dirty hair and threadbare clothes in one of the chairs, and a very twitchy fellow who was mumbling under his breath in the other. The same scrawny guy from before sat in the same seat at the far end, still enthralled by the TV. Was he just always there?
A man sat behind the glass that day. I approached him and said, "Hi. I'm here to see Detective Grafton or Hammett. Are they available?"
"Who can I say is asking and what's this concerning?" he asked.
"I'm Will Keegan. It's concerning the death of Joey Taylor," I explained.
"Have a seat," he ordered.
All the seats were taken, however, so I just stood against the wall and played on my phone.
About thirty minutes later, I was about to give up and leave when an interior door opened and Detective Grafton popped his head into the room. He wore a frown that may or may not have been permanent. He waved me back, and I once more followed him through the cubicles, but this time he led me into a cramped office that, from the looks of the photos on the wall, he shared with Detective Hammett, though she was not present at that moment. Coffee cups and stacks of papers cluttered the tops of both desks.
"So what's up, kid?" he said as he sat down behind his desk. He didn't offer, but I sat down in one of the chairs that inhabited the no-man's land between the two desks and turned it to face him.
"Someone sent this to me today," I said as I produced the letter. It was a little worse for wear after spending the better part of the day in my pocket, but I smoothed it out best I could and handed it to him. Then I took off the necklace and handed it over as well.
Grafton's frown deepened as he read the note. He glanced at the necklace, then back up to me.
"What wasn't an accident?" he said finally.
"I think they mean Joey's death," I said, trying not to sound too surprised that I had to explain something so painfully obvious to a detective. "The necklace is Joey's. He never took it off. Mrs. Taylor told me it wasn't with his things when she, um...after she, uh, identified him and she received his—"
"Look, son," he interrupted, and I felt my spine stiffen. I hated being called 'son' by people who aren't my father. Actually, I hate it when my father calls me son, too.
"We investigated this death backwards and forwards. We had some questions, but you were the one that wrapped up the loose ends. Your friend was drunk. No, he was absolutely wasted — way over the legal limit. I don't know how he was even standing. If he hadn't drowned, he may well have died from alcohol poisoning. No one saw anything out of the ordinary and, trust me, we talked to everybody there and tracked down those like yourself who chose to leave before the real party got started. In fact, nobody saw Mr. Taylor or anything even remotely suspicious in the time between when you two disappeared upstairs together and before he was found floating face down in the pool. For the record, if there were any suspicion of foul play, you'd be suspect numero uno. As it is, it's an open-and-shut case. Drunk college kid falls into a pool and drowns. Sad story, but not a new one. I'm sorry someone played a sick joke like this on you."
"So you just think it's some kind of joke?"
"Yeah, that's exactly what I think. But I'll tell you what; if it'll make you feel any better, I'll make a note on the case file and keep the letter. If anything like this happens again, we'll look into filing some sort of harassment charges."
"What would make me feel better is if you took me seriously. He never took this necklace off. Never. Not once in the entire time I knew him."
"Look, he was so drunk it could've fallen off and he wouldn't have even noticed. Hell, maybe it broke during your little scuffle. Someone finds it, recognizes it, remembers you're his best friend, and decides to mail it with this melodramatic note. Classic college prank."
"I don't go to that school. Nobody there knew me, let alone that Joey and I were childhood friends."
"Okay, then riddle me this, boy genius. What exactly do you expect me to do here? You've already manhandled the necklace — worn it, even. This note? It looks like you ran it through a blender and sprinkled it with guilt. If there were prints, congratulations, you've probably wiped them clean. How'd it even get to you?"
"In an envelope. From a delivery service."
"And I'm guessing you saved that, right? For, I don't know, the obvious investigation that might follow?"
"No," I said, suddenly feeling about two inches tall. "There was no return address, so I threw it away."
"Well, there you go. You've destroyed the chain of evidence, obliterated any forensic leads, and tossed the one thing that might've traced this back to whoever sent it. So even if I did think something fishy was going on — and I don't — there's officially nothing left for me to work with."
I didn't bother arguing. Grafton had already decided how this was going to go, and nothing I said was going to change that. I stood up, resigned. "Can I at least keep the necklace?"
He gave a noncommittal shrug. "That's between you and the mom. Far as I'm concerned, it's just a random piece of jewelry. Only reason I'd think it was even his is because you say so."
I picked up the necklace and fastened it around my neck once again. Then I stood and started to leave. "Sorry for taking up your valuable time."
"Look, kid, I'm sorry," he said as I reached the door. "I know he was your friend, and you want his death to mean something. But take it from me — after twenty-five years on the job, I've seen more deaths than I care to remember, and the truth is most don't have meaning. They just happen. There's an old saying that says 'there's no dignity in death.' It's just a shitty deal all around."
"Yeah," I agreed, "it is."
As hard as I tried to forget my surprise package and concentrate on my painting that evening, my mind refused to let go. Grafton had dismissed the idea of Joey's death being anything but an accident so easily, but the necklace was bothering me. Together with the note, it was just more than I could ignore. I just didn't buy the idea that it was some sort of sick joke.
After staring at a half-finished painting for so long my paintbrush dried up, I couldn't stand it anymore. I gave up and went to look for Aidan. I found him in his bedroom busily typing away on his laptop.
I tentatively tapped on his door frame. "Aidan, can I talk to you for a minute?"
He immediately pushed back from the computer. "Of course," he said.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and reached up to touch the necklace.
"Something happened today," I started. "I got a strange package at work today, addressed to me with no return address. Inside was a note and this necklace. It was Joey's. The note said 'It wasn't an accident.'"
Aidan's eyes grew wide.
"I took them to the police after work, but the detective basically said the case was closed. They're convinced Joey fell in the pool and drowned because he was so drunk. He wasn't even interested in the note or the necklace. I think he only kept the note to humor me."
"Will, maybe they're right. They are the police, after all."
"Yeah, but Joey never took this necklace off. Ever."
"Then how did whoever sent it to you even get it?"
"The chain was broken."
"If he was drunk, that could have happened at any time that night."
"Okay, but why send it to me? Nobody there even knew who I was. How would they get my name and where I work? And why send the note? The detective thought it was a prank, but who could be that cruel?"
"Okay," he said slowly. "I think I see your point."
"Then I'm not crazy to feel like there's something more going on here?"
"No, you're not crazy. Something is definitely off."
"What should I do?"
"What do you mean?"
"If the police don't believe me, I can't just ignore it. I have to do something."
"I'm not sure that's such a good idea..."
"Aidan, what would you do in my place?"
He sighed. "Yeah. Okay. But you can't go off half-cocked. If you're right and Joey's death wasn't an accident, then that means there's a killer running around out there who thinks they've gotten away with murder. They might not be happy if you start sniffing around."
"I've thought of that, too. That's why I'm asking you for advice."
"Well, the first step would be to find out who sent you the necklace, right?"
"But how? There was no return address."
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe try contacting the delivery company. They usually keep records or tracking info. I don't know what else to tell you."
Checking with the delivery company sounded like a good idea. Having something concrete to do instantly made me feel better.
"Thanks, Aidan," I said as I stood to get back to my painting. "Oh! I, uh, also saw Caitlin today."
He raised one eyebrow. "How'd that go?"
"Eh. Okay I guess." As I filled him in on our conversation, his lips pulled down into a slight frown. When I got to the part about inviting her over for dinner later that week, he grimaced.
"I hope you know what you're doing," he said. "I still think you're crazy, but I can tell there's no changing your mind, so you've got my support, I guess. Have you talked to Dr. Wohler about this?"
"Speaking of crazy, huh?" My lame attempt at a joke went over like a fart in an elevator. "Uh, no. I haven't had time, but I promise I'll call him soon and set up an appointment."
"Like tomorrow?"
"Yeah, sure. Tomorrow."
I beat a hasty retreat and returned to painting.
I ran by the delivery company on my way to work the next morning but the guy working the counter wasn't very helpful. In fact, he was downright surly. He said they couldn't share details with me and if I wanted to talk to the person who accepted the delivery, I'd have to come back on Saturday because they only worked on weekends.
It wasn't an entirely wasted trip. If the necklace was mailed over the weekend, it definitely ruled out Caitlin, who hadn't known where I worked until later that week. I felt better about that, at least.
I rushed home after work on Wednesday to make spaghetti — the only thing I was relatively sure I could pull off in such a short amount of time. I didn't have much experience in the kitchen, but I was pretty sure I could follow the recipe Mom had been kind enough to text me when I asked.
I divided my time between painting and making the sauce from scratch. By the time it was finished, the kitchen looked like I'd been slaughtering hogs, but I was quite proud of the results.
Aidan got home just as I started boiling the water for the pasta.
"Smells good!" he called. Then he came around the corner and stopped in his tracks, his face stricken.
"Jesus Flippin' Christ," he groaned. "How did you manage to get tomato sauce on the ceiling?"
"The blender went..." I mimed the explosion that had sent sauce flying all over every surface in the room, including myself.
"Did you get burned?"
"Not too bad."
He gave me a dubious look.
"It tastes good, though. Want to try it?"
"Sure," he agreed with a beleaguered sigh.
I was gratified when he made a little "mmm" sound when he tasted the proffered spoonful of sauce. Less so when he immediately put me to work cleaning, though he did pitch in and help.
The place was once more presentable when Caitlin arrived promptly at seven. Conversation around the table was polite and mostly generalities, but after the dishes had been cleared, we all settled into the living room for some real conversation.
"Well, I've thought about everything," Caitlin began. "The baby, what you said the other day, you know. And I decided that I'd be crazy not to accept your offer. If I'm keeping the baby, I'm going to need all the help I can get."
"What about your parents?" Aidan asked.
"I haven't told them yet," she said with a frown. "I don't know if I even want to. They're going to totally freak out. My stepdad is a strict Mormon. We don't exactly get along."
"What about your mom?"
"My mom is... How should I put this? She's...heavily medicated. Officially, for anxiety. Avoiding real life at all costs is more accurate. We don't really have a relationship, especially after she converted. Needless to say, I never joined the church."
"And your biological father?"
"We haven't seen my real dad since I was twelve."
"How old are you now?"
"I'll be nineteen in January."
"Do you work?"
"I'm a full-time student."
"What's your major?"
"I haven't decided yet. Hey, I feel like I'm being interviewed for something here."
I was getting the same impression, so I quickly stepped in and changed the subject. "How'd the doctor's appointment go?"
She accepted the change in subject but was still giving Aidan a wary side-eye. "It was fine. The doctor said the baby was doing well, right where it should be."
"When do you go back again?"
"Oh, not for a while."
"Really? Why so long?"
"It's not like you go every week," Caitlin explained. "This was my eight-week. As long as there are no problems, I don't have to go back until like...sixteen weeks or something. That's when they do the ultrasound."
"Can I go with you?"
Caitlin and Aidan both looked at me as if I had suddenly sprouted antennae and ordered them to take me to their leader.
"What?" I said defensively.
"You want to go with me to see the doctor?" Caitlin asked.
"Yeah, I've been reading all these articles and stuff and I'd like to be involved as much as possible. Well, as much as you feel comfortable with anyway."
"We'll see when it gets closer," she said dismissively.
"Oh. Okay."
We all sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. Finally, Aidan broke the moment. "So, uh, did Will tell you about his big show?" he asked Caitlin.
The sudden shift in subject seemed to catch her off guard as if she had been thinking about something else. "Oh, his art show? Yeah, he mentioned it."
"Are you going?" he asked.
"When is it?"
"It's, um, next Friday," I admitted. "I know it's short notice, so I understand if you can't make it."
"I wouldn't miss it. Is it formal?"
"Yeah, technically it's by invitation only, but I'm sure Nikki won't mind."
"You are the star," Aidan said dryly. "I'm sure you can invite whoever you want."
I felt my face heat up.
"Hey, weren't you going to show me your paintings?" Caitlin asked. "That's the whole reason you invited me over in the first place."
"Oh. Right." I'd been half hoping she'd forgotten.
I showed her what I had finished, and she was gratifyingly impressed.
"Wait until you see them matted and framed. You wouldn't believe the difference it makes," I told her. "I'll probably be working right up to the last minute, but I'll take what I have finished so Nikki, she's my boss, can get a head start. The last few she'll be getting framed like the night before. We'll really be up against the wire. She's calling in some favors with her framer."
"It'll all work out," Aidan said, resting his hand on my shoulder, his thumb moving in a slow, familiar circle.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Caitlin clocking the gesture with a look that said she noticed more than she let on. Much to my relief, however, she didn't say a word.
First thing Saturday morning, I ran by the delivery service again. I got there a few minutes before they opened, so I sat in the parking lot until I could go in.
The woman behind the counter looked like she'd lost a long-term battle with a tanning bed. Her skin had that distinct, overcooked-leather texture that made guessing her age a gamble — she could've been fifty or seventy-five, give or take a decade. Her eyes were startlingly sharp and blue, like they hadn't gotten the memo from the rest of her, and her hair was a snowy white cloud. The wrinkles? Deep enough to map out a small river system, probably from all the sun damage.
"Hello, can I help you?" she said with a cheery smile. Her name tag read "Edna."
"I hope so, Edna," I said, with a smile of my own.
I'd intended to shoot straight and hope for the best, but now that I stood before this grandmotherly woman, I decided a more tactful approach might work better. I'd have to improvise.
"An old friend sent me a present last Saturday, and I'd like to send her a thank you card, but the thing is, we've lost track of each other and I don't even know her married name now. She only signed her first name on the card. Do you think you could help me?"
"Well, I'm so sorry, but I just don't see how I could possibly help," she said, wearing the kind of faux-disappointed expression you'd expect from someone auditioning for a soap opera — and not landing the role. "We don't release that kind of information."
"Oh. Okay. Well, thanks anyway," I said, turning to leave. The disappointment on my face was very, very real.
"Unless..." she said, drawing the word out like it was salt water taffy.
I turned back slowly, doing my best not to look too interested. I was starting to think I was dealing with a very cheerful sadist in grandma's clothing.
"Unless?"
"I suppose," she said, eyes twinkling, "if the file just so happened to be up on the screen, and I just so happened to step into the back room for a few minutes...well, whatever happened while I was gone wouldn't technically be my fault."
I blinked. Was this really happening?
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Will Keegan."
She tapped a few keys, glanced up at me slyly, and, unless I was completely losing my mind, winked. Then she turned and disappeared into the back room like this was all totally normal.
I stared after her, wondering if I'd somehow wandered onto a hidden camera show. Shaking my head, I leaned over the counter to get a glimpse of the screen. Bad angle. The glare from the overhead lights made it even worse. I leaned farther, squinting.
"Gotcha!"
She burst through the door like a jack-in-the-box from hell, and I yelped, nearly falling flat on my butt as she cackled like she'd just won the lottery.
"I'm just joshing ya. This job gets pretty boring, you know?"
Okay, I was officially convinced this woman had wandered away from a psychiatric facility. I started inching toward the door, careful not to turn my back on her again.
"Did you get what you needed?" she asked, all casual.
"No, but don't worry about it," I said, keeping my voice calm. I didn't want to spook her.
"Nonsense," she said briskly. "You've come this far, you might as well see it through. Let's see… the name was Joey Taylor. That sound right?"
I froze. No. It didn't sound right at all.
"That's impossible," I said once I could breathe again. "Joey's dead."
Her eyes widened. "Well, someone used his name to place the delivery."
"Do you remember what they looked like?"
"No, I'm sorry. I don't."
"Was it a man or a woman?" I asked, panic starting to fray the edges of my voice.
She shook her head. "I don't remember. We get so many people through here, after a while they all blend together. Especially at my age."
I looked up. A security camera was mounted right above the desk.
"What about the surveillance footage?"
Her smile thinned. "I can't show you that."
"But maybe you could just—"
"Only the manager has access," she cut me off. "And honestly, I don't even know how long we keep the recordings. I think I've helped as much as I can. I'm sorry."
"Yeah," I muttered, turning to go. "Me too."
The next week passed in a haze of paint and frantic brushstrokes. For once, I managed to shove all thoughts of Joey and his cursed necklace to the back of my mind and just focus. I took a few days off, barricaded myself in our living room, and cranked out piece after piece — sometimes two or three a day — just to make sure Nikki had enough to work with. By Thursday afternoon, I'd dropped off the last of them, running on caffeine and sheer willpower.
Needless to say, I slept like the dead that night — which was just as well, because Friday hit like a freight train. The day was a blur of last-minute chaos as we scrambled to prepare for the show that evening. Every piece already on display had to be stashed away in the storage room just to make room for my work. The final batch of paintings arrived from the framer just in time, and then came the slow, nerve-wracking process of arranging them.
Nikki agonized over the placement of each one, shifting some painting four or five times before deeming it "just right." She kept muttering about flow and the exchange of ideas, like this was a philosophical debate and not a collection of landscapes, nature, and architectural close-ups. I humored her, but all I saw was drywall, nails, and indecision.
Once all the paintings were in place to her satisfaction, the lighting had to be adjusted so that each piece was perfectly illuminated in its own personal spotlight.
Next, buffet tables were set up to hold the hors d'oeuvres and beverages being delivered later that afternoon. Since I was still underage, Nikki had bought sparkling cider along with champagne. High top tables draped with long tablecloths were placed strategically around the room.
While Nikki supervised the last-minute details, I found myself drawn toward the frog painting. We’d been in such a rush earlier, I hadn’t really stopped to take it in.
Nikki and her framer had nailed it. The cream-colored mat brightened the piece without stealing focus, and the frame looked like it had been scavenged right off a beach, all weathered wood and texture, like driftwood shaped by time. It added just the right touch of magic.
For a moment, I wanted to yank it off the wall and take it home, but it was the centerpiece, the crown jewel of the show, holding court in its carefully chosen spot. After all the effort we’d put into getting the layout just right, I couldn’t justify wrecking the balance now. Still, I couldn’t help the little pang in my chest. Letting it go was going to hurt.
By the time everything was set just the way Nikki wanted it, we barely had time to rush back to our apartments to shower and get dressed. Dante, who'd been conspicuously absent during the physical labor portion of the preparations, generously agreed to be on hand to receive the catering.
I took the fastest shower of my life, threw on the outfit I'd laid out that morning, and rushed into the living room where Aidan was waiting.
Then I stopped dead.
He was in a sleek black suit, bow tie perfectly knotted, shoes so shiny I could probably see my anxiety reflected in them. He looked devastatingly handsome.
I glanced down at myself — dark jeans, favorite sweater. Not exactly Met Gala material.
"I feel...underdressed."
He gave me a once-over. "You just look a little...casual. Didn't you say this was formal?"
"Yeah, but I don't own anything formal. I thought maybe I could swing the quirky artist vibe."
"Jeans and a sweater are 'quirky' now?"
"I don't know what I'm doing!" I said, hands flailing.
"Okay, breathe. We can fix this."
"I don't have time to breathe!"
He was clearly trying not to laugh. "Then we'll just have to improvise. But you're not leaving the house like that."
"Glad to know you're enjoying my fashion crisis."
"Always," he said. "Now, do you have anything nicer? Cooler?"
"I mean, my church clothes, but they scream Easter Sunday, not art show chic."
My panic was now in full swing.
"Deep breath," Aidan said, all soothing tones and calm competence. "Let's see what we can find in your closet."
He marched me back to my room like we were storming a fashion battlefield and immediately started digging through my embarrassingly uneven wardrobe.
"Hey, what about these?" he asked, holding up a pair of black jeans that looked vaguely familiar.
I blinked. "I think those from middle school. There's no way those still fit."
"Only one way to find out. Pants off."
I laughed nervously. "Wow, Aidan, this hardly seems like the time..."
He rolled his eyes and tossed the jeans at me. "Just try them on, Romeo."
While he dove back into the closet, I reluctantly swapped out my jeans. To my surprise, the black pair slid on without protest — well, maybe a little protest. "Okay, they're snug, but I'm not dying."
Aidan peeked over his shoulder. "They look great. Now let's fix the top half." He pulled a dress shirt from the rack and held it up. "Too big. Why are all your shirts trying to eat you?"
"I thought baggy was in."
"Maybe, but this is giving 'kid playing dress-up in dad's closet.'"
"Sorry I didn't keep my full wardrobe from eighth grade."
He snorted. "Let's check my closet. Maybe we can salvage this look yet."
I followed him across the hall. "Your stuff's not going to fit me either."
"I'm pretty sure my clothes are smaller than yours."
He had a point. He did wear his clothes fairly form-fitting to show off all his hard work.
He threw open his closet, perused the options, and produced a silky black-on-black striped shirt like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. "Try this."
I hesitated. "That's...a lot of black. I'm going to look like a goth vampire."
"You'll look like a tortured artist. It's on theme. Just put it on."
I peeled off my sweater and slipped into the shirt. Aidan stepped back, arms crossed, tilting his head like a gallery curator. "Hmm. Not bad. Needs tailoring though. Turn around."
I did as told, and he fussed behind me, tugging and adjusting something.
"What exactly are you doing back there?"
"Making you hot. Hold still."
After a minute, he spun me around and pointed at the full-length mirror. Somehow, the shirt was sleeker, fitted — less "dad's shirt," more "brooding genius."
"I have questions, but I'm afraid of the answers."
"Good. That means it's working. Now, black shoes?"
"Yeah, I've got my dress shoes—"
"Perfect. Go. Put. Them. On. We have a show to steal."
I mock-saluted. "Aye aye, Captain Couture."
Once my shoes were on, Aidan hustled me out the door and straight across the hall to Nikki’s place. He knocked, and the door swung open like it had been waiting for dramatic effect.
There stood Nikki, balancing on one bare foot, the other clad in a pink stiletto, while attempting to jam a silver earring shaped like some kind of many-armed deity into her ear, which seemed like a terrible idea given all the hopping involved.
She was dressed in a skintight, high-shine hot-pink mini dress that looked like it had been vacuum-sealed onto her body, possibly made of rubber...or melted bubblegum. Her hair, which had been a totally different color just an hour ago, now matched the dress perfectly. I had no idea how she'd managed that transformation so fast. Witchcraft, probably.
With one final bounce, she got the earring in, slipped on the second shoe, and scooped up what I thought was a heap of black leather from the floor. It turned out to be a dramatic ankle-length coat, which she whipped on like she was about to cast a spell.
"Look at you," she said, calmly eying me, as if seconds before she hadn't been hopping around on one foot like a demented flamingo. "Very chic."
"Or like I'm late to my own funeral," I said dryly.
"No, you look artistic."
"I told you!" Aidan crowed.
"Something is missing though," she said, hand on hip and head cocked to one side.
"My dignity?" I suggested.
"You never had that to begin with," Aidan quipped.
"Ah, I know. Come here."
I took a reluctant step forward, and she pounced on me, mussing up my hair with both hands.
"Hey!"
"Oh, hush," she chided as she unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt. "Your curls needed to be a little looser."
"Are you implying that Will, of all people, needs to loosen up?" Aidan interjected.
I ignored him.
Nikki gently touched the chain she'd exposed. "Oh, the necklace is a nice touch," she said.
My hand went immediately to Joey's charm. I had forgotten I was even wearing it. I hadn't taken it off since the police station. I felt my jangled nerves calm just a bit. It made me feel good to know that in a way, Joey would be with me tonight — the old Joey, who had been my best friend for eighteen years, not the jerk he'd become at the end.
Nikki stepped back and gave me a final once-over, then nodded as if she were satisfied with what she saw. "Let's go. It's showtime."
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