The Truth of Yesterday
Book 4 of the Killian Kendall Mysteries
By Josh Aterovis
Copyright 2026
Chapter 19
I stood frozen, my brain scrambling to process what I was seeing.
Why did Jake have a photo of Neal hidden in his bedroom? What was their relationship — if any? Could my two cases somehow be connected? A hundred questions flew through my mind like a flock of startled birds, but I shoved them aside. Now wasn’t the time. Neal was watching me, his expression curious.
I forced myself to move again, pasting on a pleasant smile and walking toward him with what I hoped looked like professional confidence.
As I approached the table, Neal rose to greet me. “Hello, you must be Killian,” he said, his voice smooth and lightly accented. It caught me off guard — over the phone, I hadn’t noticed it. The accent was faint, hard to place. Continental European, maybe. Polished. Educated.
“Yes, and you must be Neal. Thank you for meeting with me.”
“Believe me, it’s always a pleasure to share a meal with such an attractive young man.”
I gave a polite smile in response, my brain still reeling from the revelation that he was the man in Jake’s photo. Normally, I’d blush at such a comment, but I was too rattled to do much more than nod.
A waiter arrived just then, refilling Neal’s water and taking my drink order. I used the interruption to study Neal more closely. The newspaper photo hadn’t done him justice. In person, he was striking — tan skin with a golden undertone, dark eyes that sparkled with intelligence and humor, and sharp, patrician features that belonged in a fashion magazine...or perhaps a spy thriller. His dark hair, peppered with silver, was styled with just enough care to look effortless. Age-wise, he could’ve been anywhere from a forty to a well-preserved sixty. I suspected he'd had work done, but, if so, it was subtle — and probably very expensive.
He wore a charcoal-gray sport coat over a crisp, open-collared shirt, and everything about his outfit spoke of expensive taste and quiet confidence. A slim gold chain at his throat, a heavy watch, and a pair of elegant rings of each hand completed the look. If the goal was to radiate wealth, charm, and control—he succeeded.
“You look surprised,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Even a little...unnerved?”
I forced another smile. “I’m not sure what I was expecting, sir, but you’re right, it wasn’t you.”
His eyes twinkled. “The way you hesitated, I could practically hear the gears turning. Don’t worry, I’m not always so intimidating—only when I need to be.”
I took a sip of my ice water, more for something to do than out of thirst.
“You’re not what I expected either,” he said after a pause, voice light but intent. “Partly your age. And partly...your beauty.”
This time, I couldn’t stop the blush.
“When I think of a private investigator, I imagine the Philip Marlowe type, someone a little more jaded. A trench coat. Cigarette smoke. A five o’clock shadow. But you? You’re all light and angles. More charming than cynical.”
“I guess I’m the new model,” I replied with a tight smile.
“Then I like the new model. Much more aesthetically pleasing, I assure you.” He gave me a warm, practiced smile. “But business first. We’re both busy men.”
“Yes, thank you again for taking the time,” I said, welcoming the shift back to something solid and professional.
He waved a hand with a graceful shrug. “Let’s just say, your email didn’t exactly leave me many options. I find myself in a rather delicate position, and meeting with you seemed...prudent.”
“You’re careful,” I said.
“Careful,” he echoed. “Yes. Discreet. Selective. It’s how I’ve stayed in business this long. In fact, you’re the only person to ever associate me with the Drake Group who’s met me in person.”
“You must trust me.”
“I trust that your interest is sincere. And speaking with Micah helped confirm that.” He gave a soft sigh. “He was always one of my favorites, you know. Smart. Sexy. Reliable. I’m glad to hear he’s doing well. Though I have to wonder...is your relationship with him purely professional?”
I smiled, but it didn’t reach my eyes. “That’s a bit personal, don’t you think?”
He chuckled, unbothered. “Touché.”
I leaned forward slightly. “What can you tell me about Paul Flynn?”
Neal tilted his head, amused again. “That depends. What would you like me to tell you about Paul Flynn?”
The vaguely patronizing tone irked me. Since I’d arrived, he’d been controlling the tempo of the conversation. Time to take it back.
“Let’s start with how long he worked for you.”
He considered. “Just under three years.”
“That’s a long time for an escort, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps. But the arrangement suited him, and I don’t interfere where I’m not needed.”
“What kind of employee was he?”
Neal folded his hands on the table, his rings catching the light. “You must understand, Mr. Kendall — it’s not quite the same as managing a retail business. Escorts aren’t clocking in and stocking shelves. Paul had a certain appeal: blond hair, blue eyes, youthful charm. Not unlike yourself, actually. That look never goes out of style. Clients loved him. He was honest, dependable, respectful. Never caused trouble, never shorted me on my share. His reviews were glowing. By every metric that mattered, he was a model employee.”
"Micah told me you paid your employees by direct deposit when clients paid online. Was that true for Paul?”
“It’s standard practice.”
“Do you know what bank he used?”
“I don’t recall, but I’ll find out.”
“Did you ever meet him in person?”
“No. I make it a point never to meet my escorts. Separation ensures discretion — for both sides. Business is conducted digitally or over the phone.”
“Then how do you manage quality control?”
“I have people,” he said smoothly. “Handlers, photographers, client feedback, regular check-ins. Before I even consider hiring someone, they’re required to submit photos and measurements, undergo a physical exam with a clean bill of health, and commit to regular HIV and STD testing. I also run a full background check. It’s a well-oiled machine.”
I nodded slowly, filing away every detail. So far, he was composed, consistent...but that photo in Jake’s room still nagged at me. I couldn't very well ask him about it, though. I forced my mind back to the business at hand.
"Did Paul seem any different the last few months?"
"Different? No, but then, I'm not sure I would have noticed. We weren't close. Our contact was minimal and always by telephone or email. The only way I'd have known if he had changed would be if his clients noticed a remarkable-enough difference that they felt compelled to report it to me, which as you can imagine is not very likely."
"You said his reviews were good. Did he have any repeat customers?"
Neal’s expression shifted slightly. “Paul discouraged long-term arrangements. Repeat clients can form attachments, and those attachments can become messy.”
“But he did have repeat clients?”
“A few. Yes.”
“Do you keep records of your clients?”
He narrowed his eyes. He still wasn't squirming, but I had a feeling this was a man who never squirmed. Slightly peeved might be as close as he got.
“Even if I did, they would be kept in the strictest confidence. That’s how I maintain my reputation.”
“So you do keep records.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You’re too defensive. That’s a giveaway.” I leaned forward, voice calm but firm. “We’ll call them alleged files, for the sake of conversation. I don’t plan on making them public. I just want to see Paul’s file. And his client history."
Neal’s charm dropped like a mask. “I agreed to meet as a courtesy, Mr. Kendall. That does not include handing over private files.”
His voice had taken on an ice-cold-steel quality that sent a shiver down my spine, but I didn’t flinch.
“This isn’t a social visit. Someone strangled Paul in his own apartment. That makes it murder. And if I don’t get those files, I’ll go to the police. You said yourself you’re in a vulnerable position. Do you really want law enforcement digging into your business model?”
His jaw tightened. A long moment passed. Then, to my surprise, he broke into a wide, genuine smile.
“Well,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “I underestimated you. That doesn’t happen often.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should. You’re quite the surprise. If this PI gig doesn’t work out, I imagine you’d make a very successful escort.”
“Thanks,” I said, deadpan. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, the files?”
“I can't risk transmitting digital files over unsecured channels. I’ll send you a hardware-encrypted USB drive, overnight, delivered by private courier. Signature required, of course. Once it's delivered, call me for the code.”
“And you'll include everything? Paul’s file, his banking info, and whatever records you have on his clients.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t dare forget.” His eyes twinkled again, but the steel behind them remained. “Is our business concluded?”
“Just one more thing. Do you have any idea who might have killed Paul?”
“None,” he said flatly. “I’ve thought about it quite a bit. Paul was a good person. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt him.”
“Alright then. We’re done. I’ll be looking for those files.”
“You’ll have them tomorrow.” He stood and offered a faint bow. “It’s been a pleasure.”
He turned and walked away, never once looking back.
I sat there a moment longer, my mind churning. I had just pushed a very powerful man and lived to tell the tale. That alone was cause for caution. But there was more.
Why did Jake have a photo of Neal?
I left a few bills on the table to cover my drink and went to find Chris.
"So...how'd it go?" she asked.
"It went."
"Is this fill-in-the-blanks? I couldn't really see you guys up there, so I had to content myself with loitering around at the bottom of the stairs. They almost escorted me out a few times, until I told them I was waiting for my aunt, Senator Sampson. They left me alone after that."
"Is Senator Sampson really your aunt?" I asked, momentarily distracted.
"No, but they don't know that. Why are you so frowny? Did the interview go badly?"
"Not really."
"Did you get any information out of him?"
"Not really."
"So it was a total waste of time?"
"Not—"
"—really," she finished for me. "Would you care to elaborate on any of this?"
"He didn't exactly tell me anything useful. He's sending me the files I was hoping to get, however, so it wasn't a total bust."
“He’s sending them? Like...in the mail?”
“Overnight. Private courier. Signature required. Password protected. He's very...cautious. He admires caution."
"Does he? Hmm. Well, caution is very admirable, especially when crossing the street. So is that it? Are we done? I have a class at two, and if we get moving now I won't have to miss it."
Shaking my head in an attempt to clear it, I started toward the trains.
"Yeah, we're done. Let's go."
As we walked back down to the Metro, Chris was rattling on about something, but I couldn't have repeated a word of it if my life depended on it. My mind was still stuck on one thought: Why did Jake have a photo of Neal stashed away in his room?
There was one obvious explanation that would explain the photo and the wad of cash I found in Jake’s room. But I didn’t like where that answer led me.
And Judy would like it even less.
I brooded the whole train ride back, and then the entire drive home. But by the time I pulled into the driveway, I still didn’t have any answers. Just more questions.
And a bad feeling that things were about to get worse.
The only vehicle in the driveway was the pickup, which likely meant Kane was home. That suited me just fine — I needed to talk to him about Jake. I couldn’t do much more on Paul’s case until the files from Neal arrived, but I’d put off dealing with Jake for too long already. And now that there was a chance the two cases overlapped, I had even more reason to get back on track. Kane was my first stop.
I found him in our shared room, hunched over the computer, typing away with the fierce intensity of someone procrastinating productively.
"Homework?" I asked.
He jumped and spun in his chair. "Jesus, Killian, you scared the shit out of me. When did you get home?"
"Just now. Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Got a minute?"
He pushed back from the desk with a dramatic sigh of relief.
"Please interrupt me. Take your time. I’m knee-deep in Shakespeare, and I’d rather talk to a serial killer than write another word about Hamlet."
"How can you hate Shakespeare?"
"Not hate — strongly resent. And it's not even Hamlet himself, it's having to analyze him in five pages or more. Why couldn’t the guy have written fewer soliloquies?"
I laughed, momentarily distracted from why I’d come. "Fair enough. But I need to ask you something. Kind of official."
His expression shifted. "Official how?"
"Jake."
Kane’s brow furrowed, and he nodded slowly. "Go ahead."
"Who were his friends at school?"
"You mean who used to be his friends," he corrected. "He doesn’t really have any now. I think that’s the way he wants it."
"What happened? Why’d they pull away?"
He shrugged. "I don’t know. We weren’t exactly tight. Different grades, different social circles. I tried to be friendly when he first moved back, but he was...off."
"Off how?"
"Different from before. He was always so outgoing and confident, not cocky, just really...assured."
"What's he like now?"
"Quiet. Not mean or anything, just…distant."
"But he used to have people he hung out with?"
"Yeah, mostly Danielle and Craig. They were kind of his inner circle, I guess."
"Last names?"
"Lewis and Martin. Danielle Lewis, Craig Martin."
I jotted them down in my notebook. "Were they close?"
"Danielle was like his best friend. Craig—" Kane hesitated, then smirked. "Craig had a major crush on him. Followed Jake around like a lost puppy. Not that he ever said anything. He's not even out, but everyone knows he's gay."
I raised an eyebrow. "If he's not out, how do they know?"
Kane gave me a look. "C’mon, Kill. You know the signs. Craig’s...pretty obvious. Flamboyant as hell."
I frowned. "That’s a stereotype."
He rolled his eyes. "Don’t start preaching. I’m president of the queer club you started, remember? I live with three gay men, and my brother was gay. I think I’ve earned a little gaydar credibility. Trust me — Craig’s gay. Whether he knows it or not."
"Alright, alright. Sorry." I rubbed my face. "You wouldn’t happen to have their numbers, would you?"
"Nope. You’ll have to sleuth that out yourself, Nancy Drew."
"Ha ha. You're hilarious." I closed the notebook. "Just for that, I’m not helping with your paper."
"Rude," Kane said, but he grinned. "So, when are we hanging out? You said we should spend more time together, but I haven’t seen you in, like, forever."
"I know. I’ve been buried in these cases. Soon...I promise."
He rolled his eyes. "That's what you always say. What about tonight?"
"Don't you have homework?"
He looked at his computer with contempt. "It can wait."
"Well, I really can't tonight. I want to swing by the office to type up my notes while it's fresh on my mind. I'll probably stay at the B&B tonight since I have class in the morning. Is Adam coming back tonight?"
Kane's face dropped. "Yeah, but he said he'd be late."
An idea occurred to me.
"Oh hey — random question — do you like dancing?"
Kane gave me a suspicious look. "I mean…I guess? Why?"
"Wanna go to a dance with me?"
He made a yuck face. "Um, thanks for the invite but isn’t that a little weird? You’re my brother and all..."
"You're hilarious. But seriously, I’m going with Micah. You’d just be tagging along. It’s a Halloween dance at Pemberton, sponsored by Haven."
"What’s Haven?"
"The queer club on campus."
He raised a brow. "So not only would I be third wheel, but it'll just be, like, all gay guys and lesbians?"
I laughed. "It’s college, so it's more mixed than Rainbow Alliance. There’ll be bi girls, at the very least. Think about it: maybe you'll be the only straight guy there. Prime opportunity."
Kane’s grin widened. "Suddenly, this is sounding like the best idea you’ve had in years."
"Are you seeing anyone right now?"
He sighed. "Nope. I’m in a bit of a drought. Maybe I've outgrown high school girls. A college dance might be exactly what I need. When is it?"
"Tomorrow night. Costume required."
"A costume? What is this, middle school?"
"Oh, come on. It’ll be fun."
"What are you going as?"
"I have no idea. Got any suggestions?"
Kane looked horrified. "It’s tomorrow night and you don’t have a costume? Killian!"
"I know, I know."
He paused. "You remember the last costume party we went to together?"
Unfortunately, I did. Jake’s house. The night everything went sideways — a busted windshield, a death threat, and a murder.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "Let’s hope this one goes better."
"For real," Kane agreed. "Hey, why don’t you come back here tomorrow and we can make our own costumes? We can brainstorm and grab supplies, then throw something together."
Normally, that sounded like my personal hell — I was the least crafty gay man on the planet — but Kane looked so hopeful I couldn’t bring myself to say no.
"Sure," I said. "Come up with an idea and call me with the supply list."
His whole face lit up. "Awesome! Okay, back to Billy Shakes for me. Unless…how about this? I’ll be Hamlet and you be Yorick. I’ll drag you around in a headlock all night and whisper, ‘Alas, poor Yorick,’ over and over."
"Keep thinking," I said flatly.
"Ha. Later, Kill."
"Later, Kane."
I grabbed my keys and headed for the office, glad to have made progress — with the case, sure, but more so with Kane.
I drove to my office, where I found no messages waiting for me. In fact, it didn't even look as if Novak had been in that day. The mail was still in the box, and a yellow post-it note from a delivery service was stuck to the door, saying they would be back the next day to try again, but after that, we were out of luck.
"We need a secretary," I said as I sorted the mail, making one pile to give to Novak and tossing the rest in the trash.
After finishing that task, I looked up Martin and Lewis online. There were far too many to call one-by-one, and I didn't know their parents' names to narrow my search. So much for the easy way.
Then again, perhaps there was an even easier way. I picked up the phone and dialed Judy's number.
"Hey Judy, this is Killian."
"Hi, Killian. Have you found something?"
"I don't know yet." I chose my words carefully. "Maybe. I need to check some details first before I say anything."
"It sounds serious."
"I don't want to go into it at this point. I don't know enough. I'm hoping you can help me, though. I'm trying to get phone numbers for Danielle Lewis and Craig Martin. They were friends of Jake's."
"I know Danielle and Craig, Danielle especially, but I don't think I have their phone numbers." She paused. "Actually, maybe I saved them in my phone just in case I needed to track down Jake some time. Hang on."
While I waited, I picked up a pencil and doodled absently on the back of an envelope.
A few moments later Judy came back on the line. "Found them," she said triumphantly.
She read off the numbers, which I jotted down on the envelope.
"You know," she said, "I don't think he's really friends with them anymore. I talked to them when I first became suspicious, and they said they didn't know any more than I did."
"What they might not be willing to tell a mom, they might not mind telling me. You know parents are like the enemy at that age. You keep your mouth shut—"
I glanced down at the envelope and stopped in midsentence.
"Killian?" Judy asked. "Are you still there?"
While I'd been waiting for Judy, I had drawn words in bubble letters. I was suddenly struck by the ones my subconscious had chosen,
Escort. Jake. Money.
It was the most obvious conclusion...and the one I'd been trying to avoid. It explained everything: where he kept disappearing to after school until late and even occasionally overnight, the expensive clothes, the electronics, even the ticket to the Ball. One of his clients could be taking him. It all fit too perfectly. I didn't like it, but it made too much sense to simply dismiss.
More importantly, I didn't have to like it. I just had to prove or disprove it. All I had so far was circumstantial evidence.
The one thing that theory didn't explain was the photo. Neal claimed he never met his escorts in person, so how could Jake know who Neal was? Then again, maybe Neal was lying. Or maybe Jake was just too much to resist, and he'd made an exception. Or maybe Jake figured it out somehow. What if he was blackmailing Neal?
"Killian? What's wrong?" Judy asked again. I had forgotten I was still holding the phone.
"Oh, um, nothing's wrong." There was no point getting Judy all upset until I knew for certain what was going on with Jake. "I just realized I'm late meeting Micah," I fibbed.
"Oh, then I'll let you go. Tell him I said he did a great job on the big article. It's about time we shook up those fat cats."
"Yeah, thanks. Bye, Judy."
I hung up and sat staring at the envelope and those three words.
Jake an escort?
Was he somehow connected to Paul's death? Could he be in danger?
I didn't even want to consider it, but it was too late. I was in too far. I had to know the truth.
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