Carlos

The next morning, I come downstairs at six on the dot and find John Turner already up, fully dressed and ready to go.

He sits at the table, drinking coffee and munching on a protein bar while he reads the news on his phone. When I enter the room, he looks up and frowns. I'm still dressed in my underwear.

"Sorry. I, uh... I thought you'd make me breakfast." I rub the side of my neck and grin cheekily.

Turner's expression doesn't change. He gives his attention back to his phone and waves at the kitchen area. "Help yourself to coffee and a nutrition bar. Then get dressed. And don't wander around my house in your underwear."

Pretending ignorance, I blink innocently. "Why not? We're both guys, aren't we?"

"Exactly. I don't want... anyone... to get the wrong idea."

My face heats with indignation at the implication — first that he doesn't want anyone to think he's gay, and second, especially not with me — and I glance around the empty house pointedly. "Like who? All your other guests?"

"Believe it or not, Martinez, but I do have visitors from time to time, some of whom are colleagues."

Both annoyed and chagrined, I drop the pretense. "I said you could call me Carlos."

"That's what you'd prefer?"

I nod.

"Well, I'd prefer you didn't wander around half naked, Carlos. You respect me, and I'll respect you. Deal?"

I play off my embarrassment with a shrug. "You got it, jefe."

Even so, I make a point to take my time getting a mug of coffee and choosing a crunchy nut bar from the box on the counter, before retreating back upstairs to get dressed.

The whole time, I can sense Turner's eyes on me, but I make a point not to look at him again.

~ ★ ~

Our first stop is the station, where I sit around like a bored kid on 'take your kid to work day' while Turner does paperwork.

"You want a coloring book or something?"

I look up from a random informational pamphlet on the hazards of date rape, which I've read three times already, and find Turner watching me. "What?"

"You're fidgeting."

"Oh. Sorry."

"You want something to do, you can make a list of all the people with a connection to both you and Kyle — however tangential. And write down everything you know about Kyle's routine. Places he went, things he did. Anything could be important."

He hands me a notepad and a pen.

I sigh. "Yes, Daddy."

He squints at me. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'good idea.'"

I take the proffered articles and get to work, ducking my head. Only an idiot keeps harassing a dog once it growls.

~ ★ ~

The list is longer than I anticipated. While his aunt is the only person Kyle had close dealings with, the number of people we both interacted with forms an expansive network. At the same time I can't imagine there's much significance in the fact we belonged to the same gym.

Turner seems pleased, though, and suggests we start at the top, so when he finally finishes his 'desk work,' we pay a visit to Aunt Lucille.

He parks nearer the crest of the hill than I did, maybe to diminish the risk of having his doors ripped off by runaway trucks. As we get out and approach the antique house, he mutters instructions to me under his breath.

"Let me do the talking," he says. "You observe. Look for ghosts, or whatever it is you do."

He mounts the steps to the porch and rings the bell. I stand at his side, doing my best to play the Mulder to his Scully, or vice versa.

As she did when I visited alone, Lucille takes her time answering the door. Unlike me, though, Turner is patient and only rings the bell once. I realize why when, after Turner identifies himself, Lucille opens the door wide enough for me to see she walks with the aid of a cane.

"Yes? What can I do for you, Detective? Have you found my nephew's killer?"

"Afraid not, ma'am," Turner says deferentially. "But that's why we're here. I know you've already been interviewed, but I was hoping you'd be willing to answer some more questions about Kyle."

"If it helps, certainly. Come right in."

She backs away and holds the door open a little wider, at which point she registers my presence for the first time, and frowns.

"What is he doing here?" she asks.

"Mr. Martinez has generously offered his services to assist in this case," Turner says smoothly. "We're grateful for his expertise."

"Services? Expertise?" Lucille scoffs. "Do your vehicles require onboard mechanics these days? Remind me to vote on the next public services referendum."

Turner smiles and turns up the charm. "Something like that. I assure you, Carlos is well-qualified and has every interest in securing justice for Kyle."

Lucille shoots me a skeptical look, but seems to buy it. Meanwhile, my heart accelerates and butterflies swarm in my gut.

It feels alarmingly good to be praised, and I tamp down on the feeling angrily.

Turner doesn't even mean it, I remind myself. Just shut the fuck up and play along.

Inside, Lucille leads us into a musty-smelling living area, and invites us to sit. All the furniture looks at least a hundred and twenty years old, and a coat of dust covers everything. I sit gingerly in a spindly-legged chair that creaks as it takes my weight, while Turner settles on a wicker loveseat with enviable ease.

"Would you care for tea or coffee?" Lucille asks, even as she lowers herself into an upholstered chair across from us, clearly with no intention of rising again to get us something to drink. "Or some sandwiches, perhaps?"

"No, thank you," Turner says, even as — with wonderfully bad timing — my stomach growls.

"No, thanks," I say, and smile, though I'm almost hungry enough to eat at Chick-Fil-A. Almost.

"We won't take up much of your time, Mrs. Peters," Turner says. "We just have a few follow-up questions."

"Of course."

He launches into them, leaving me feeling about as useful and welcome as a mime.

I scan the room for any sign of Kyle, but don't even get a sense of his presence. On the other hand, spirits often anchor themselves to the familiar, and — as they say — there's no place like home.

"Where is Kyle's room?" I ask, interrupting Turner mid-sentence.

Lucille turns rheumy blue eyes on me and scowls, deepening the lines in her face. "Upstairs. Why?"

"I just thought..." I glance at Turner, who lifts a brow at me. There's a challenge in it, and I rise to it. I square my shoulders, clear my throat, and adopt a more authoritative tone. "I'd like to have a look around, if you don't mind, Mrs. Peters."

She glares at me, then waves a gnarled, ring-bejeweled hand at a steep, narrow staircase half-hidden in shadow against the far wall. "Do as you like, young man. Just don't go stealing anything. I'll know it if you do."

Rising, I nod. "I've no intention of stealing anything Mrs. Peters. I just want to help."

She waves again, as if dismissing the concerns of a troublesome chimney sweep, and gives her attention back to Turner.

I take advantage of this, and slip away upstairs.