Carlos

Sometimes it takes a minute for my brain to catch up to my mouth, especially when I'm stressed or under pressure, which is what happens when I open my front door dressed in my underwear and find myself face to face with a pair of officers and some unexpected news.

"Dead? What do you mean, he's dead?"

The male officer looks me up and down, but I'm pretty sure he's not checking me out. More likely, he's comparing me to some profiling list in his head and checking off boxes.

✓ Mid to late twenties
✓ Male
✓ Longish hair
✓ Medium brown skin
✓ Obviously doesn't have his shit together
✓ Latino-looking
✓ Probably a criminal of some kind

"I mean he is no longer alive, Mr. Martinez," the man says. "He is deceased. Passed away. Expired."

"Está muerto," the female officer joins in helpfully.

I rub my hands over my face and do my best not to scowl. "I get that, thanks. What I mean is... what happened?"

"That's what we're trying to establish, Mr. Martinez. My name is Detective John Turner. This is Sergeant Latoya McKenzie. May we come in?"

"Uh..." I glance between the pair. I'm pretty sure I can refuse, but less sure I can do so without hurting my chances of appearing 'not guilty.' They haven't said as much yet, but also I'm pretty sure they're not here just to tell me Kyle died of natural causes.. "Of course."

I step back and hold the door open as they enter. Two pairs of eyes rake across my living space, doing inventory, drawing conclusions, and I cringe as I see it from a visitor's perspective.

I'm not a slob, but I'm not Marie Kondo, either. Most of my stuff is from thrift shops or hand-me-downs from friends. None of the furniture matches, every dish I own is from a different set, and it's been a week since my last weekly cleaning day. I wince at the overflowing laundry basket, the dirty sink, and the two-day-old pizza box occupying the coffee table.

"Sorry about the mess. I, uh, wasn't expecting guests," I say, and then mentally kick myself.

The cops aren't 'guests,' Carlos.

Detective Turner quirks a brow, but merely nods at the couch. "Can we sit?"

"Of course! Uh..." I scramble to clear away the pizza box, several dirty napkins, an open DVD case, a book, and a packet of cigarettes.

The cops take the sofa, while I perch nervously on the edge of a well-worn La-Z-Boy.

"You smoke?" Sergeant McKenzie points at the Marlboro Lights.

"Huh? Oh, no. My aunt does."

"Your aunt lives here, too?" Detective Turner pulls out a notepad and pen.

"No, no. She's in Oregon."

"Then why you got her smokes?" Sergeant McKenzie swipes a finger across my countertop, as if checking for dust.

"They're not hers. They're mine."

The pair share a glance, and Turner scribbles a note.

"You just said you don't smoke. So which is it?"

I frown. It feels like I'm already being interrogated, and I don't even know what the deal is yet. "I lived with my aunt until recently," I say. "Relatively recently, anyway. I was... feeling homesick, I guess. Missing her. I saw these at the gas station and bought them on a whim. Not to smoke, just to... just to have, I guess."

"Decorative cigarettes. Right."

Turner makes another note and my frown becomes a scowl.

"No offense, officers, but what happened to Kyle, and why are you here?"

Detective Turner takes a breath and studies me with a penetrating stare.

"Kyle Peters was murdered, Mr. Martinez, some time last night. Can you tell us where you were between the hours of 10 p.m yesterday and 2 a.m. this morning?"

"I was here. Asleep."

"Anyone vouch for that?" Mckenzie asks.

I shake my head. "I live alone."

"You didn't text anyone, call anyone? Facetime your girlfriend?"

"I don't have a... No. I had dinner, took a shower, and went to bed. I was tired."

"Hm."

Turner makes another note, and my temper finally wakes up (along with the rest of my senses). These two obviously got here early, hoping to take me off guard, and they succeeded. I'm sitting in my living room, dressed in my underwear, being questioned by cops. It doesn't feel real, and in the dreamlike state of shock after learning my assistant is dead, who knows what shit I might say to incriminate myself?

"Look, just tell me what happened to Kyle," I say.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

I turn to Sergeant McKenzie. "Yesterday, around lunchtime."

"When is lunchtime?"

I scowl at Detective Turner. He's hot — no denying that — but obnoxious. "2 pm. I gave him twenty bucks to go get us some burgers. He never came back."

"That didn't concern you?"

"Sure it did. I didn't get lunch, lost twenty bucks, and had to finish the rest of the day's work alone."

"You didn't think to call him? Make sure he was all right?"

I meet his sexy Russell Crowe stare and refuse to blink. "No. He's only been working here two or three weeks, and it's not the first time he's dipped in the middle of a shift."

"Two, or three?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "What?"

"You said, 'he's only been working here two or three weeks.' So which is it? Two weeks, or three?"

"Shit, I don't know. I'd have to check the books."

"Can you check them now?"

Glaring, I stand and stalk over to my 'desk,' which is really just a piece of scrap plywood bolted to some two-by-fours and painted white. Painfully conscious of the detective's eyes on my back, I rouse my geriatric computer from its slumber and open a spreadsheet.

"Two weeks and three days," I say, and clear my throat. "He started on the 17th of last month."

"Thank you. That's very helpful."

I turn and find myself almost chest-to-chest with Mr. tall, dark, and antagonistic. There's a moment of silent masculinity measuring, and then I yield, glancing away and taking a tiny step back, bumping into the desk. Like Aunt Toni used to say: pick your battles, or pick your tombstone.

Oddly, Turner seems equally off-balance, as if he hadn't meant to stand so close, and takes a step to the side, allowing me a clear path back to my seat.

Excruciatingly conscious of the fact he's watching me, I make my way back to it and sit down.

"So. Are you going to tell me about Kyle, or not?" I ask. "I assume someone's spoken to his aunt."

"She's been informed," Turner says stolidly, as if Lucille can expect a standard government-issue letter in the mail.

"Kyle was found in the park, early this morning," Sergeant McKenzie says, "where the trail goes under the highway between Chestnut and Main." She pulls out her phone and holds it towards me. "He was surrounded by symbols like this. Any significance to you?"

I squint at the screen, then school my face into a featureless mask as a shiver runs up my spine.

"No. What is it?"

"Some sort of occult symbolism, as far as we can tell from the shit on the internet," McKenzie says, pocketing her phone again. "Kyle into that kinda thing?"

I shake my head. "No. Not as far as I know."

Detective Turner sighs. He hadn't retaken his seat and leans against the back of the couch, arms crossed. Now he straightens and pulls a card from the breast pocket of his crisp white shirt and holds it out to me.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Martinez. We'll be in touch if we have any further questions."

"We're sorry for your loss," Sergeant McKenzie adds. "I hope we can count on your cooperation as we investigate."

"Of... of course," I say, taking the card reflexively.

"If you think of anything else, give me a call," Turner says. Then, with a bit more awkwardness, they're gone, and I'm alone again.

As soon as the door shuts at their backs, I dash upstairs and snatch my phone off the bedside table, ripping out the charging cable and bringing up Aunt Toni's contact. Hands trembling, I tap her number and listen with my heart pounding in my ears as it rings.

Voicemail. Again.

Toni Martinez. I'm busy. You know what to do.

Beep.

I draw a breath, words swirl in my brain. Then, like I have the last three times I've called, I hang up.

I said some shit to Toni the last time I saw her, when I left for Spring Lakes — some shit I needed to say, but maybe not quite the way I should have said it. She raised me, and overall she did a good job, but she'd hurt me, too; and with my words, I hurt her back.

That wasn't my intention, but words are like toothpaste: hard to retract once they're squeezed out.

That symbol the sergeant showed me was familiar — too familiar — and my first thought was to run to Toni for advice. Now, I shake my head at myself as I get dressed.

I told Toni I didn't need her. Time to prove myself right.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. I fix a busted tail light, change a battery, flush a transmission, and order some specialty parts for a certain vintage Volkswagen. The whole time I keep my phone with me, waiting for Lucille, or Toni, or the cops, or someone to call me, but it stays silent.

The shop is silent, too. It's as if nothing happened, and by the end of the day I've half convinced myself it was all a dream — that tomorrow Kyle will show up bright and early for his shift, with some wild story about why he never came back with that burger the day before.

As for what I'd seen on the sergeant's phone... Maybe I was wrong. It wasn't that clear of a picture, after all. Maybe my coffee-deprived brain had just filled in the blanks. I mean, what were the chances that mark would show up here, and that it would have any relation to Kyle?

I've pretty much convinced myself of this — that Kyle met a tragic, untimely, but ultimately mundane end — by the time I close up the shop for the day. He was the victim of a mugging, or a drug deal gone wrong, or maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but it's got nothing to do with me.

It weighs on my heart, of course. The poor kid was so young, and while I can't say he was destined for greatness, who knows what impact anyone else might have on the world? Now whatever impact Kyle might have made — good or bad — is forever lost.

I'll have to buy a suit for his funeral, I think, as I trudge upstairs after work.

If I'm invited to his funeral.

I strip out of my clothes and step into the shower.

Funerals are depressing as fuck. I hope I'm not invited.

I wash my hair, soap up, rinse off, and reach for my towel.

"Why you gotta do this to me, Kyle?" I sigh as I wipe the steam from the bathroom mirror and stare into my own dark eyes. "I give you a job. You take my twenty bucks and get yourself killed. Where did I go wrong?"

Something moves in the reflection, and I gasp and spin so fast I almost fall on my ass.

I'd thought there was someone in the room with me — an intruder appearing at my back.

Instead, I groan with a strange mix of terror and relief as I find myself face to face with Kyle's ghost.