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“Calisto was eight when I met him. I’m not in the habit of sending eight-year-olds out to investigate murders. He would have insisted on taking his Lego with him, and no one would have taken him seriously.”

Lake was silent for a moment as he digested what I’d told him. “What about your parents? What about the people you left behind?” I sat forward on the bench, hands dangling between my thighs, and said nothing. “You haven’t seen anyone, have you?”

“My relationship with my parents was difficult even before I died,” I admitted. “They weren’t exactly overjoyed at having a gay son. I had a boyfriend, but I expect he’s moved on in nineteen years. We’d only been seeing each other for a few months.”

“Right.” The sun came out again, Lake squinting against it. “Well, it’s obvious what you need to do to heal, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Face up to things and stop hiding from what happened.” He made it sound so easy. “I can help.”

I turned my head to study his expression. There was nothing but earnestness staring back at me. “Can you? How?”

“It’s basically research, isn’t it? And if there’s one thing someone who writes books about history is good at, it’s research.”

“I’m sure you’re too busy.” He’d agree he was, and I could go back to living in not so sweet oblivion.

“Let me help, Baxter. I know this is hard for you, but that’s why you need to do it.”

I let my head fall forward. This time when I closed my eyes, there was nothing but blackness. “I don’t know why you care. You only met me a few hours ago.”

“I just really like doing research.”

I laughed, and when I raised my head, Lake was laughing too. “Not today,” I said. Lake would have been justified in pointing out that I was putting things off, but he didn’t. He nodded instead. “I should probably go home.”

“Let’s go to the zoo.”

“What?”

Lake stood, his expression one of pure enthusiasm. “It’s just over there.”

“I know where it is.”

“Well, then. Let’s go. You can stroke the goats.”

Lake was already walking away. I hurried after him. “Is that a euphemism?”

He turned, his eyes twinkling. “You think I’m inviting you to masturbate in the middle of the zoo? They have a petting zoo. Get your mind out of the gutter. Stroking animals is therapeutic.”

“Maybe. But a goat?”

“Better than the tigers. You get to keep your fingers.”

“True.” It seemed a zoo visit was on the cards today, and I wasn’t mad about it.