Gone by Jonathan Kellerman

anything else that comes to mind.”
    “Nothing,” said Peaty.
    “The hoax Michaela and Dylan tried to pull off,” said Milo. “What’d you think about that?”
    “It was on TV.”
    “What do
you
think of it?”
    Peaty tried to chew on his mustache but the clipped hair was too short for a tooth hold. He tugged at his right muttonchop. I tried to think of the last time I’d seen a set that overgrown. College days? Portrait of Martin Van Buren?
    Peaty said, “It ain’t good to lie.”
    “I agree with you there. My job, people are always lying to me and it really gets on my nerves.”
    Peaty’s eyes dropped to the porch planks.
    “Where were you last night, Mr. Peaty, say between eight p.m. and two a.m.?”
    “Home.”
    “Your place on Guthrie.”
    “Yessir.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Eating,” said Peaty. “Chicken fingers.”
    “Takeout?”
    “Frozen. I heat ’em up. I had a beer.”
    “What brand?”
    “Old Milwaukee. I had three. Then I watched TV, then I went to sleep.”
    “What’d you watch?”
    “Family Feud.”
    “What time did you pop off?”
    “Dunno. The TV was goin’ when I woke up.”
    “What time was that?”
    Peaty curled a muttonchop. “Maybe three.”
    One hour past the bracket Milo had given him.
    “How do you know it was three?”
    “You asked so I said something.”
    “Anything special about three?”
    “Sometimes when I get up I look at the clock and it’s three, or three thirty. Even if I don’t drink a lot, I gotta get up.” Peaty looked at the floor again. “To piss. Sometimes twice or three times.”
    “Let’s hear it for middle age,” said Milo.
    Peaty didn’t answer.
    “How old are you, Mr. Peaty?”
    “Thirty-eight.”
    Milo smiled. “You’re a young guy.”
    No answer.
    “How well did you know Michaela Brand?”
    “I didn’t do it,” said Peaty.
    “I didn’t ask you that, sir.”
    “This other stuff you’re asking. Where was I.” Peaty shook his head. “I don’t wanna talk no more.”
    “Just routine,” said Milo, “no reason to get—”
    Shaking his head, Peaty backed away, toward the door.
    Milo said, “Here we were having a nice conversation, then I ask you how well you knew Michaela Brand and all of a sudden you don’t want to talk. That’s only gonna make me wonder.”
    “It ain’t,” said Peaty, groping for the door handle. He’d left the oak panel slightly ajar and the handle was inches out of reach.
    “Ain’t what?” said Milo.
    “Right. Talking like I did something.” Peaty edged back, found the handle, and shoved, revealing oak floors and walls, a glimmer of stained glass. “I had a beer and went to sleep.”
    “Three beers.”
    No answer.
    “Listen,” said Milo. “No offense intended, but it’s my job to ask questions.”
    Peaty shook his head. “I eat and watch TV. That don’t mean nothing.”
    He stepped into the house, started to close the door. Milo checked it with his shoe. Peaty tensed but let go. His grip on the broom handle swelled his knuckles. He shook his head and stray hairs floated free, landing on thick, rounded shoulders.
    “Mr. Peaty—”
    “Leave me alone.” More whimper than demand.
    “All we’re trying to do is get some basic facts. So how about we come in and—”
    Peaty’s hand grabbed the door’s edge. “Not allowed!”
    “We can’t come in?”
    “No! The rules!”
    “Whose rules?”
    “Ms. Dowd’s.”
    “How about I call her? What’s her number?”
    “Dunno.”
    “You work for her but don’t—”
    “Dunno!”
    Peaty danced backward and shoved the door hard. Milo let it slam.
    We stood on the porch for a few moments. Cars drove up and down the street.
    Milo said, “For all I know he’s got rope and a bloody knife in there. But no damn way to find out.”
    I said nothing.
    He said, “You could argue with me.”
    “There is the fact that he’s weird,” I said.
    “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Guy lives on Guthrie off Robertson. You visualizing the same map I