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The younger of the two takes out his notepad and scribbles. “Can I have your name?”
“Clay O’Rourke.”
He nods. “Did he seem distressed before he left, or did you notice any changes in his behavior?”
“He was only here for a short time, and I didn’t interact with him regularly. He worked as a mentalist, so was not on my team, but I can get you the name of his supervisor.”
Marsh observes me, eyeing me up and down, looking for signs that I’m telling the truth. “Do you have any idea why someone may have reported him missing?”
“I’d have no way of knowing that.”
“He had a parole condition to check in weekly,” Marsh says, watching for my reaction. “He’s missed two.”
“I wasn’t aware of his record when he was hired. We run background checks through a third party. Performers are vetted for the safety of children. He checked out and nothing was flagged, so there is nothing more we could have done.”
Marsh nods while the other cop takes notes. “Is there anyone else who knew him well or spent time with him off the clock?”
“I can check, but I don’t believe so. He kept to himself.” I pause, and when they say nothing, I add. “Is there anything specific you’re looking for? If he moved on without notifying his parole officer, that would be a matter for the corrections system, rather than—”
“We are covering all our bases,” Marsh interrupts. “It’s a routine follow-up.”
“Of course.” I stand so they know I am done. “I can walk you out. If anything else comes up, I am happy to cooperate fully.”
I add the last part deliberately, as people who have something to hide rarely volunteer their cooperation. Marsh gives me one more look and nods. I walk them back out to the gate and watch as they leave.
Once I see them drive away, I turn and go back to the house. It’s still early and Khodi has done most of the morning checks. It’s fairly basic before people arrive, and more intensive between the day and night shifts to make sure no one is hiding in places they shouldn’t be.
I pour myself a drink, even though it’s early, and take a seat.
The sound of footsteps precedes Kayla walking into the kitchen, her hair a mess and one of my shirts drooping off her shoulder. She pulls out a stool and glances over at me as she yawns. She reaches over and grabs my drink, helping herself.
“That’s mine,” I growl half-heartedly.
“Sucks when someone takes something that’s yours, doesn’t it?”
I laugh and point at my shirt.
“So are you going to tell me why your face looks like that?” she asks.
I consider fucking with her, but this is not something to lie to her about. She and Ares told us about what happened at The Pitt, and Ares came up with a plan. We manipulated the camera footage, even when the cameras were down. He knows people who are good at what they do, and we now have all the footage we need, stamped with the revised time and date.
“Two detectives came, asking questions about Aaron, though they only called him Luca.”
She goes still, and I can see the fear in her eyes. “What did you say?”
“That he resigned for personal reasons, just like we went over.”
“Did they believe you?” Her hands start to tremble, the drink shaking in the glass.
“Doesn’t matter if they believed me, they have nothing. Ares cleaned the cameras, and we have footage of the entire island, even the day he left. There is no footage of him returning.”
“And the grave?”
I look at her blankly. “What grave?”
She holds my gaze, and her shoulders drop. “Okay.”
“You know nothing. You haven’t seen him since you left him years ago. He didn’t contact you, and you didn’t contact him.”
