I heard Beth put the T.V. on as I dug out a pan. She was watching a local morning news program. I had just grabbed some eggs and butter when she called out to me.

“Mark! Come here! You have to see this!” I put everything down on the counter and quickly headed back up to the loft. She was kneeling on the bed, wearing one of my t-shirts and she looked amazingly sexy, but I wanted to know what had her so worked up, so I tore my eyes away and looked at the T.V. There was a reporter standing in front of an upscale apartment building and the text below said “Mysterious Center City homicide.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, feeling my gut tighten.

“There was a quick clip, and Caitlin was… wait ssh!”

The body of woman was found this morning in the Heights Terrace residential apartment complex in Center City. Sources say that foul play is suspected. The victim has been identified as journalist Elaine Cooper, employed by the Philly Beat.

A picture of a woman appeared on the screen. It took me a minute to place her but then it clicked. “That’s the tabloid reporter from the fundraisers,” I said and Beth nodded.

Ms. Cooper, who does not live in the building, was discovered by resident, Caitlin Reynolds, in the hallway directly outside of her apartment door. Ms. Reynolds is the granddaughter of painter Winston Reynolds, well known for his realistic still life portraits, one of which reportedly went missing at the time of his death. After being interviewed by the authorities, Ms. Reynolds gave the press a brief statement earlier.

A piece of footage started playing and there was the nitwit, surrounded by microphones.

“I just opened my door and there she was… all dead! I could tell because her eyes were open and there was blood. Ew! Ew! Ew!”

I rolled my eyes. Why was this woman suddenly everywhere? The reporter came back on and made a quick closing statement and the station went to commercial.

“She lives in a secure building. How did that reporter get past the doorman?” Beth asked sounding stunned.

“I don’t know. But what I do know is that this has nothing to do with us.” I walked over and sat on the bed beside her.

“She asked me for help. She said she didn’t have any friends she could turn to.” Oh fuck! Here we go. I sensed more window hopping on the horizon.

“Beth,” I reached out and grabbed her, pulling her into my arms. I’m not sure if I was trying to comfort her or stop her from whatever she was planning to do. “We don’t even know that this has anything to do with Caitlin. She’s not the only person who lives in that building. She’s just the one who found her.”

“She found her outside her apartment. She said she thought someone was following her. She doesn’t have anyone to turn to and she said I was nice.” Beth sounded miserable. I realized at that moment that I was already being tested. Was I going to respect the wishes of one of my best friends, who specifically asked me not to let his sister get involved in anything that could be dangerous, or was I going to do whatever I had to do so that my girlfriend wouldn’t look so sad. Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Well, at least Braden could only kill me once.

“Okay,” I said tucking a strand of her adorably messy hair behind her ear. “Why don’t you call her, and see if she can come into the office to talk to us. Tell her though, that she has to be completely upfront about everything or we will not get involved at all. Understand?”

“I understand,” she answered and she looked genuinely grateful. She leaned up and kissed me and then pulled me back into bed with her. Caitlin and breakfast could wait for a while. Good choice Mark.

1:00 PM

“Tell us the story. But you had better not leave anything out. And no promises that we’ll do anything at all with the information,” I said to Caitlin, sitting in the orange armchair across from us. Beth and I were sitting behind her desk next to each other. I liked that, girlfriend over here, two hours of my life I’ll never get back over there.

“I had a sexual relationship with Paul. It began a couple of months before my grandfather died.” I grabbed a pen and pad. I still did it Old School when it came to interviews. Can’t doodle very easily on a laptop.

“Paul Gerard?” I asked, taking notes.

“Yes, Paul Gerard, the guy whose house we were at.”

“Wait a minute,” Beth Broke in. “Your grandfather died when you were sixteen.” I could tell she was trying not to sound appalled.

“Right. I was sixteen and Paul was forty.” Alrighty then. I made note of that. “Caitlin = Lolita, Gerard = mid-life crisis.”

“How did that come about?” I asked, trying to stay on track.

“He was a close friend of my grandfather, who was my guardian. He used to come over a lot. In fact, I used to think that maybe he and my grandfather were having a relationship.” I paused. Okay…

“You mean like a…” Beth began and I wanted to reassure her that she wouldn’t be a homophobe just because she found this situation messed up.

“I’ve never had confirmation of it, but I’ve always suspected that Paul is bisexual,” Caitlin interrupted. “Anyway, he paid a lot of attention to me, you know? And I liked it. He made me feel special.”

“Was this at his place?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s why I had the key.”

“What does this relationship have to do with the painting?” I asked, getting impatient. I didn’t want to hear about how special Caitlin felt with a forty year-old guy when she was sixteen, or any guy frankly.