"There!" I stabbed my finger at his screen as the words Intern List fairly jumped out at me.
"Jacob Stark," Chase read off the tagged names. "Allison Parker, Amanda Chang, Devan White, Tyler McGowan, and Michael Davenport."
"So which one do you think worked under Connor Simon?" Sam asked, crowding up next to us to peer at Chase's screen.
Chase clicked on the first name, taking him to Jacob Stark's page. Nothing terribly telling there. Lots of posts in celebration of graduating from UCLA in the spring. No mentions of Peak games or Connor Simon.
Chase did a repeat with each of the names on the intern list—seeing lots of posts about graduations, school accomplishments, college affiliations. Enough that I was starting to feel like I was falling way behind in the race to adulting.
Finally he hit Tyler McGowan's page. Which was possibly the most sparse, but thankfully he had heartily celebrated his internship last summer by posting a photo of Connor Simon along with the words My boss for the summer!
Bingo.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Chase, Sam, and I pulled up to the address listed on Tyler McGowen's LinkedIn résumé, which ended up being in a residential area of San Jose, just a few blocks from my own home. It was a two-story blue house with bright white shutters and flower boxes in each window. There was scalloped trim along the roof, and a white picket fence surrounded the small lot. It was cute. Almost a little too cute. Like the type of houses we drew as kids in elementary school. It only needed a blue cloud of smoke from the chimney and a crisp yellow sun with straight-lined rays in the left corner of the sky.
"Adorable," Chase said, stealing my thought. Only his tone was filled with cynicism.
We walked up the flared cobblestone walkway to a small front porch that was only big enough for a single white wicker chair and a mini palm tree in a peach-colored ceramic pot.
Sam stood just behind me texting as I rang the bell. None of us said anything as we waited.
The door opened and a skinny guy wearing a burgundy T-shirt and baggie cargo shorts stared at us. His sandy brown hair stood erect at several different angles, and his feet were covered in fuzzy, bright red socks with the words Ho, ho, ho in white lettering.
I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting, but in person this guy looked no older than Sam and I.
"Are you Tyler McGowen?" Chase asked.
The guy scratched the side of his head, his gaze going from me to Sam. "Who wants to know?"
"We're from the Herbert Hoover High Homepage," Chase explained.
"What's that?" the guy asked with a squint.
"A newspaper," I supplied.
"They still have those?" He smirked.
"Can we ask you some questions?" Chase asked.
"About what?" the guy replied.
Well, he didn't deny he was Tyler, so at least we had the right house and right person.
"We're doing a story on Gamer Con and Connor Simon's death," I said.
At the mention of Connor's name, the smirk died, and the guy's expression went immediately dark. "I don't know anything about that." He took a step back, ready to shut the door.
But Chase had the reflexes of a cat and jumped into the doorframe. "You did intern with Connor last summer, right?"
"Yeah." Tyler paused. "So?"
"So, we just wanted to get your take on him," Sam said. "You know, your inside view of him as a person. Can we come in?" She shot him a big smile.
Which seemed to disarm him a little as he stepped back. "Okay I guess. But just for a minute."
We stepped into a pastel colored living room, complete with a Robin's egg blue sofa, soft yellow loveseat, baby pink walls, and a pale green throw rug. It was like walking into an Easter egg. I was about to voice a suspicion that Tyler himself had not been the decorator, when a tall woman suddenly appeared from a back room. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt with a pair of kittens on it.
"Tyler, are these your friends?" she asked, blinking innocently at us.
Tyler seemed to shrink into himself. "Just some kids from school, Mom," he mumbled.
I raised an eyebrow at him. "You go to Herbert Hoover High too?"
He didn't answer, ducking his head in a way that was positive affirmation enough.
"Well, it's lovely to meet you. Tyler hardly ever has friends over." Her smile was so big it was a bit alarming. "Please, come in. Don't be shy."
Tyler groaned. "Mom, please don't embarrass me," he said under his breath.
She tapped his arm. "Oh hush, Tyler. I just want to meet who you hang out with. But please follow me into the kitchen. I cannot let my buns burn."
Tyler groaned again, but if his mother heard it, she ignored it, leading the way toward the kitchen.
Which, just like the living room, had also been hatched from an Easter bunny. Soft blue refrigerator and gleaming white counters beneath pale yellow walls were an ode to pastel. Another green rug sat under a round white table and chairs. I wondered if she bought them in bulk.
"So, are you all freshmen as well?" Mrs. McGowen asked, turning her attention toward the stove.
"Freshmen?" I glanced at Tyler, whose face was turning red. His secret was out of the bag. He was fourteen.
"Uh, no," Chase answered. "But we all mingle on campus."
"How nice is that?" Mrs. McGowen said. She opened the oven door, and the aroma of fresh bread and chocolate hit me hard. If someone bottled that scent, they could make a fortune.
I glanced at the fridge where three photos stuck to the shiny surface with magnets. They were each of Tyler at the beach. Two were of him by himself, and
