CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Steve Marlo lived on the west side of the city, in a neighborhood that looked like it was still in development.
On his street alone, Sloane drove by two different apartment complexes in various stages of construction.
The blocks nearest the main road had the slightly worn, commercial look of a stretch that had seen better retail years: a shuttered dry cleaner, a nail salon still open with its lights on, a check-cashing place with a handwritten sign in the window.
But a few streets in, it softened. The houses were small and set close together, but most of them showed signs of care.
Swept porches, window boxes, and well-trimmed hedges sat in front of most of the homes.
Marlo's house was a narrow two-story with white aluminum siding and a dark green door, a small concrete porch, and a recycling bin at the curb that had not yet been brought in from collection day.
From what she could tell of the sliver of face that was revealed in the crack, the man on the other side of the gap was in his mid-thirties, with a soft build and an unshaven face. When she saw the irritation in his eyes, she showed her badge and ID. He looked at her credentials for a long moment.
"Mr. Steven Marlo?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I'm Special Agent Sloane. I’m very sorry to visit at such an hour, but I’d like to ask you some questions about a case I’m working on.”
“Me? What… what for? What case?”
“I’d really prefer to come inside to discuss it all.”
“Am I in any trouble?” he asked, instantly defensive.
“I don’t believe so,” she said because it wasn’t technically a lie. Not yet, anyway.
He thought it over for a moment and then unlatched the chain. He opened the door the rest of the way as he stepped back and said, "Come in."
She did so, taking a quick look around. The living room was small and functionally furnished, with a couch facing a television and a folding table against one wall that was serving as a desk.
A laptop sat open on it beside a ring light that had been pushed back to make room.
There were two framed prints of waterfalls on the wall, the kind sold in sets. The room was clean, but not overly so.
Moving as if he didn’t quite know where to step in front of a federal agent, Marlo sat in an armchair across from the couch.
He watched her settle in on the edge of the couch with a wariness that wasn’t quite hostile, but made it apparent that he was bracing for something he expected to be unpleasant.
“So… what’s going on?” he asked.
"I want to ask you about a few things related to the Fresh Horizons forum," Sloane said. "And about your whereabouts over the past three evenings."
Marlo looked at his hands briefly and then back at her. "Is this about Carol Paige?"
"Among others," Sloane said. "You heard about her?”
He nodded. “Yeah, a few of the people in Fresh Horizons texted and told me. It’s just… just awful.”
“So, let’s start there, with Carol,” Sloane said. “Can you tell me where you were three nights ago?"
In his defense, he didn’t seem all that offended that the conversation had so quickly turned toward proving his innocence… even though Sloane had just told him he probably wasn’t in any trouble. He took a moment to understand what was going on and then he responded.
"I was with a client," he said. "It was an evening session that started at seven and it ran until about nine."
"Can you provide the client's name?"
He shifted in the chair. "I run a coaching practice. My clients keep things confidential and I extend the same to them. It's how the business works. I’m sure you understand.”
"I understand that," Sloane said. "But in the context of a murder investigation, I'd need you to consider whether your client would be willing to verify that voluntarily."
"I'll reach out to them." He said it neutrally, without promising anything. Sloane could tell that the mere idea of it made Marlo uncomfortable.
"And two nights ago?"
That one he answered more readily. He reached for his phone from the side table, opened his photos, and turned the screen toward her.
It showed three men sitting around a table covered with board game components, cards fanned out, a couple of beer bottles visible at the edges.
He then tapped the picture again to show the details, specifically that the photo was timestamped at 10:44 at night.
He swiped to a second photo, showing the same table and the same men, but with slightly more beer bottles. This time, the timestamp read 11:14.
"Those guys are Brian Collier and Marc Fenton," he said. "We've been doing a game night every couple of weeks for about a year. They can confirm I was there."
"And last night?"
"Home alone," he said. "I ordered food. I can find the delivery receipt if you need it."
"That would help." She waited while he scrolled around on his phone. Within a few seconds, he had a confirmation email from a delivery app timestamped at 8:47 PM. She knew this didn’t clear him completely, but based on his alibis for the two previous nights, it stood up pretty well.
it. It placed him at this address last night during the relevant window, but it wasn't airtight.
Delivery confirmation said the food arrived, not necessarily who was home to receive it.
She moved on. "You were a member of the Fresh Horizons online forum, correct?"
He exhaled slowly through his nose. "Yeah."
"Can you tell me what your intention was in joining that community?"
Marlo looked at the laptop and the ring light, and something moved through his expression that landed closer to embarrassment than anything else.
"I joined because I thought it was a space where people were actively trying to rebuild their lives after relationships ended.
I thought it might be a good fit for what I offer.
" He waited a moment, as if non-verbally confirming that yes, he knew how sleazy it seemed.
"I posted a few times, mentioned my services.
I wasn't aggressive about it. I just—" He stopped and started again.
"I'm trying to build a client base, and the forum seemed like a place where people might genuinely benefit from what I do.
The admins said it was fine so long as I limited it to no more than twice a month. "
"But Carol Paige didn't see it that way," Sloane said.
The embarrassment sharpened. "No. She did not."
"How did that feel?"
He was quiet for a moment. He narrowed his eyes at her, clearly annoyed.
"It was humiliating," he said finally. He said it with enough flatness that she believed the word had been chosen accurately rather than for effect.
"She called me out in front of the whole group.
She didn't message me privately first; she just posted it directly in the thread.
And then a lot of people liked the comment.
" He shrugged and settled back further into his chair.
"I get it. I mean, yeah, I know how it looks.
But to be publicly dressed down like that, in a space I'd been trying to participate in genuinely in addition to the promotional stuff—" He shook his head once and rolled his eyes.
"I stopped posting for a couple of weeks. "
"And then resumed. When he did, it was all very common and nomrla, but still…"
"Without the links. Yeah." He looked at her steadily, and she could see that he was trying to determine if she was buying into the story.
"I kept the forum because some of the discussions are actually useful to me professionally.
I read what people share and it gives me a better sense of what women going through divorce actually need, which makes me better at my job.
" He said it without apology but also without pride. "I wasn't hunting for anything."
Sloane looked at him. He was thirty-five years old and recently divorced himself; she had confirmed that from the registration records, and he was running a side hustle from a small table in a small living room and had been publicly embarrassed in front of a group of women by a woman who was now dead.
She had walked into this house ready to press very hard if she needed to.
What she was finding instead was a man who was struggling, probably more than he let on.
And part of that struggle involved making a poor judgment call about how to grow a fledgling business.
"Had you ever met anyone from the Fresh Horizons forum in person?" Sloane asked. "Outside of the program's offices?"
"No," he said. "I never met any of them face to face if it wasn’t a meeting at the offices.”
"Did you ever communicate privately with Carol Paige, Donna Holt, or Nancy Briggs? Direct messages, anything outside the public threads?"
"Carol, no. After what happened in that thread, I wouldn't have gone near her inbox." He said it without bitterness, more like someone stating a practical reality. "Donna Holt, I don't think I ever interacted with her at all beyond maybe a like somewhere."
He stopped on Nancy Briggs, and Sloane watched him think about it.
"Nancy I'm less sure about," he said. "I think I replied to something she posted once, something about confidence going into a first date, and she might have written something back.
But it was in a public thread. Nothing private, nothing outside the forum.
" He looked at Sloane directly. "I can show you my message history if you need it.
I have nothing in my DMs from any of those women. "
"I may take you up on that," Sloane said. But she only said it to make him understand how serious this was. She didn’t see the point in telling him she already had access to all of that anyway.
She asked a few more questions, covering the general involvement with the forum, and he answered all of them.
She didn’t get the feeling that he was being evasive.
He was not calm in a way that felt controlled or managed and it didn’t seem that he was simply trying to play a part.
He was just a somewhat embarrassed man who wanted this conversation to end and was cooperating because he understood he had no reasonable alternative.
When she stood to leave, he walked her to the door and held it open for her. On the porch, she turned back briefly.
"The client from three nights ago," she said. "I'd appreciate it if you could reach out to them tonight. Explain the situation in whatever terms you need to." She then handed him a business card which she took from the inner pocket of her jacket.
"I will," he said.
She went back down the porch steps to the car. She sat behind the wheel for a moment in the quiet of the street before she picked up her phone.
She opened her text thread with Kate and typed: Marlo is a dead end.
Recently divorced, running a coaching side-hustle, mortified about the Carol Paige thing.
First night alibi is unverified but he reads as zero threat.
Second night is solid, photos with two friends timestamped after ten. Nothing here. How's Hanover?
She set the phone in the cupholder and started the car. She pulled out from the curb and drove back toward the main road, passing the shuttered dry cleaner and the nail salon, its lights finally off now. The sign in the check-cashing window the only thing still lit on the block.
Her phone buzzed in the cupholder. She left it until she hit a red light, then glanced at the screen.
Kate had replied with two words: Still there.
Sloane set the phone back down and drove on, feeling as if the whole case was moving in slow motion.