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it’s still an open investigation.” I sipped my coffee, watching my dad get distracted by Maggie. “Hey, Pop,” I said quietly while setting the mug down. “Can I ask you something?”
    “Sure, kiddo,” he answered while rubbing Maggie’s big head.
    “Why’d you never get married again, after Mom left?”
    Pop paused and looked back up. “Well, that came out of left field.”
    “Just curious,” I said with a shrug.
    “I was too busy raising you.”
    “You’re not raising me anymore.”
    “A father’s work is never done.”
    “I don’t want to see you lonely. That’s all.”
    He snickered. “Do you think I’m lonely, Sebastian?”
    I wisely kept my mouth shut and just shrugged.
    “I’m not. But do you want to know something?”
    Do I? “What?”
    “It’s not smart to project your own feelings onto others.”
     
     
    NEW YORK City has over eight million residents.
    Eight million.
    And I was lonely.
    I had been with Neil for four years. I had fallen head over heels for that smart, sexy cop, and six months ago I had finally asked him to move in with me. I remembered thinking what a milestone it was. Neil wouldn’t want to hide anymore if he wanted to live with me. He’d be out, and when we were seen together, people would know I was his partner.
    I snorted to myself while walking down the sidewalk after finishing my visit with dad.
    We lived together in that little apartment, and I had never felt farther away from him in all our four years together. Everything had gone to hell six months ago, and I was only just coming to terms with it.
    Merry fucking Christmas, Sebastian.
    It was cold and the wind was fierce enough to push me around, but I decided to go talk with Mike. I didn’t need Neil’s permission or approval. I was a goddamn adult, and if I wanted to ask Mike where he got off accusing me of stealing, I would.
    Even though it wasn’t a far walk from Pop’s, by the time I got to Bond Street, I was sufficiently frozen through. The cars parked along the sides of the street were buried in over a foot of snow, but I could still pick out the back fins of Mike’s famous 1957 Chrysler New Yorker. It was supposedly painted an official color of shell pink , but the neighbors just called it the Peptomobile.
    I guess it’d be funny if I knew what color Pepto-Bismol was.
    At least Mike was sure to be home. He lived in one of the apartments directly above his storefront. I walked toward the doorstep on the right that allowed access to the upstairs, but stopped suddenly. Bond Antiques was dark inside, but the heavy front door was ajar just enough to swing lightly in the wind. Snow was piled up in the partially open doorway.
    The hair on the back of my neck stood as I watched the door creak back and forth. Turning to look up and down the street, I couldn’t see anyone coming or going. My hands began to sweat in my jacket pockets as I stepped back from the door. I hurried to the apartment buzzer and hit Mike’s number.
    No one answered.
    “Come on, you grouch,” I muttered, hitting it again and again.
    I jogged to the road to look up at the apartment windows, but between the snow and my vision, I couldn’t tell if there were lights on or not. Mike could have simply run down to his shop to grab something. He was probably inside while I stupidly stood on the curb.
    But why wouldn’t he turn the lights on?
    Why leave the door open in this storm?
    Creak.
    Creak.
    Mike really needed to oil the hinges of the front door. And I nearly laughed out loud that that was suddenly the foremost thought in my mind.
    My next immediate thought was to call the cops, but tell them what? I was standing outside the building of the business whose owner had, in so many apparent words, accused me of breaking into his shop? I grabbed my phone from my pocket and pulled up the telephone keypad. That suddenly seemed like a good idea, because what if the shop had been broken into again?
    I had hit nine and one before stopping.