Page 81 of Kill Your Darlings

“I am.Yeah.”

“Why?”

“No body.”

“But…”

“We know why Dominic’s body wasn’t found—by the way, that’s also an assumption on your part.Remains might have been found but not identified.But what would be the reason for hiding Milo’s body?And if it was suicide—most suicides don’t attempt to conceal their death.They might try to hide that they’ve committed suicide, but typically people don’t want their families to agonize over a mysterious disappearance.”

I hadn’t considered the situation from that perspective.It seemed my original instinct had been correct.Milo had bailed.

Finn said, “I want to know how much local law enforcement suspects.I need to get my hands on cold case reports, coroners’ records, or old sheriff’s logs to see if unidentified remains were ever recovered in the Pescadero Marsh area.If no body was ever found, it’s harder to prove a crime—even with your confession.”

The confession no one had heard but Finn.

Chapter Nineteen

The Argyroses still lived in the same little house, but they were not only keeping up with the Joneses, they seemed to be doing considerably better.For sure, better than any of them had been doing twenty years ago.

Gone was the patchy lawn, the sagging porch, the sun-bleached plastic geraniums in cheap pots.The stucco was fresh, the trim recently painted a sharp navy blue.A well-maintained silver Camry sat in the driveway.The lawn was green, the flower beds were neat, edged with stone, and the porch had been redone in composite decking.

Maybe the good folks of Steeple Hill had finally developed a taste for Greek food?

I raised my hand to lift the cute brass shell-shaped knocker, then lowered it again and wiped my palms on my jeans.I tried again, knocking briskly on the blue surface.

My heart was hammering as I waited.Seconds passed and then the door suddenly opened.

Mrs.Argyros was smaller and grayer, but I’d have known her anywhere.Not least because she was wearing the same long yellow cardigan and dubious expression.

I opened my mouth, but she put her hands up waving me away.“No thank you!We have everything we need!”

It did look that way.

I said quickly, “Hello, Mrs.Argyros.You probably don’t remember me.I’m Keiran Chandler.I was a friend of Milo’s in high school.”

She stopped waving and squinted at me.I was sure she didn’t recognize me.Then her face lit with a flicker of polite surprise.

“Oh!Yes—Milo’s friend.Sheriff Chandler’s boy.You studied together sometimes, right?Government, was it?Milo had trouble with government.That teacher!Or was it history?”

“English,” I said.“And theater.Occasionally.”

I had a vivid memory of walking down that little hallway behind her, closing the bedroom door behind us, so we could “run lines.”

“I heard your father passed.It was a shame what happened to him,” Mrs.Argyros said.“He was a good man.A good sheriff.Such a shame he lost his job like that.”

I murmured something vague.But the only shame was that it had taken the powers that be so long to notice that he was drinking on the job.

Mrs.Argyros stepped back and waved me in.“Well, come in, dear.I remember now.You were going to be a writer.”

“It didn’t quite work out that way.”

“No, of course not.It’s very hard to be a writer.It takes a special kind of person.”

Which I clearly had not been.I smiled faintly, stepping inside.

Inside, the house was warm, clean, and faintly scented with something citrusy and expensive—the kind of candle you didn’t find at the grocery store.The carpet had been replaced with polished hardwood, and the kitchen in the background gleamed with brushed steel appliances and a countertop espresso machine that looked like it required a barista’s license to operate.

It was a far cry from the cluttered kitchen and hand-me-down furniture I could still recall.The walls were still covered in a gallery of family photos, though.Mostly of Milo.Milo had been the youngest of five, a surprise baby.There were pictures of him with his dog Ditto, Milo in football pads, Milo in detective costume complete with fedora.Photos of Milo right up until the age of eighteen—and then only blank walls.