by Max Walker
On my way to Stonewall Investigations, my phone rang. For a split second, I let my hopes run ahead of the seventy miles per hour I was currently pulling down the highway.
Of course it wasn’t Beckham somehow finding my number.
“Hey, Will,” I said as the call connected to my car.
“Hey,” my friend’s voice came through the speakers. “You’re coming today, right?”
“Ugh, shit, I can’t, Will. I’m doing something down in Miami.”
Today was our usual lunch at a taco place near our apartment building. We’d go to the beach and jog our pico de gallo–fueled sins off. It was one of the only things that kept me level-headed when school got too stressful, especially at the start of vet school.
“That’s fine. You going to be down there for long?”
“I’m staying at my brother’s for a few, yeah. I think I want to find Derrick’s killer.”
“Oh, whoa.” The surprise was obvious, even through the phone. “Shit, man. All right, yeah, go do that. You know I’ve got your back. But, wait, you’re not doing it yourself, right? Like going Batman or some shit?”
I laughed at that. Outside, the open farmlands had transformed into communities filled with spacious two-floor homes.
“No, no. I’m getting help for that. Going to my brother’s detective agency.”
“All right, well drive safe, then, and keep me updated.”
“Will do, Will.”
“Talk later.”
The call hung up and was replaced by a kick-ass Taylor Swift song. I lowered the windows and upped the volume, letting my inner Swiftie flag fly as I tapped on my steering wheel and sang out the song, adding words to whatever lyric I didn’t know.
By the time I pulled into a parking spot, I had belted out a song from each of the pop divas, further enhancing my gay superpowers in preparation for what was ahead.
Stonewall Investigations was already an immediately inviting building. A shaded walkway cobbled with stone led up to the main entrance, the bubbling sound of a fountain surrounded by bright green plants adding a sense of calm. A rainbow flag waved in the soft salty breeze that carried in from the ocean, only a few streets away. I knew my brother had found a job here after his time as a police officer, but he didn’t talk much more about his job. It could be because he had fallen deeply and madly in love with a fellow detective at Stonewall and was most likely still shy about it, knowing my brother. So all I knew walking in was that the detective agency helped any person who walked in through those doors, but was an exceptionally safe space for LGBTQ+ folk like me.
I’d spent time giving interviews in police stations. Spent time under the stony and cold glare of a police captain as I cried about losing my boyfriend in my own arms. Talking to detectives who could be overhead chatting nonchalantly about the pussy they were bagging later in the night.
It was gross and demeaning, and a lot of times, I didn’t feel like many in that station had my back or the back of my murdered boyfriend. Some officers did, and some were overly kind with me, and those few left their marks. But some were openly hostile toward me during a time when I needed help the most.
I didn’t want to play Russian roulette with finding help. I knew everyone at Stonewall Investigations would be open and willing to help me, and so I felt quite assured and safe walking into the main waiting area, immediately being greeted by a curly-haired girl sitting behind a long desk, her smile as bright as all the natural sunlight that filled the warm space. Her white blouse dotted with tiny flowers made her teeth seem almost reflective with how white they were.
“Hi, welcome to Stonewall Investigations! I’m Holly. How can we help you today?”
Her positivity was nice. It helped relieve pressure from my shoulders. I was definitely feeling anxious about this entire thing, and second thoughts did occur on the drive over, but for some reason I couldn’t quite place, stepping into Stonewall felt like the exact right thing to do.
“I’m actually looking to speak with a detective. I’ve got some questions that need answering… wow, does that sound like I’m a mob boss or what?”
Holly laughed at that, snorting toward the end of her laugh fit. “You know, you kinda look like—”
“Jonah Brightly? Yeah, he’s my older brother.”
“I was actually going to say a younger Neil Patrick Harris, but yeah, now that you mention it, I can see you and Jonah have the same nose.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. “Well, I’ll take the NPH compliment.”
“I’m glad to meet you…”
“Oliver. Olly.”
“Good to meet you, Olly. Let me check the schedules and see who can help you out. Just grab a seat and I’ll get you all set up. I think Jonah’s all booked up, but I’ve got a couple other detectives opening up.”
“That’s okay, I’d prefer someone that wasn’t my brother.” I smiled, feeling a sense of surety. The comfortable couch dipped under my weight when I sat. I reached over and grabbed one of the magazines on the table. I could mindlessly scroll through my phone, but that only reminded me of the missed connection my heart was unreasonably yearning for. Seriously, I had to stop watching sappy rom-coms on my iPad before going to sleep. It was turning me into a fawning kid chasing after something they’d never get.
I have to stop watching The Proposal and start watching Child’s Play.
Because nothing says anti-lovey-dovey than a possessed and uber-creepy doll intent on murdering people.
“All right, Olly, if you’ll just come with me, I can take you to Detective Noble’s office.”
Holly led me past the desk and down a hallway to the left. I spotted an outdoor courtyard area and plenty of space to relax and think about cases or do whatever else detectives did on their free time.
We stopped in front of a closed door. The glass was frosted over, and a name was written across it in a golden script, the letters bold.
Hah. Funny trick, universe. But I’m not falling for it.
Beckham Noble. There could be no way this was the same Beckham I had met a thousand miles away from this exact spot. This was just a dumb coincidence, that’s all it was.
So why did my hands get clammy all of a sudden? And those butterflies in my stomach? Where did they just come from? What the hell? Why was there basically an entire pride parade marching around in my gut right now?
Then Holly opened the door and—
“Holy shit.”
“Bloody hell.”
Holly, with her big brown eyes, looked between me and an equally shocked Beckham, who was standing behind his desk and staring at me with an ever-growing smile.
“You two, uh, know each other?”
7 Beckham Noble
“Thank you, Beckham. Really, thank you.” Piper beamed at me, the sunlight from my office window shining through her cherry-red hair. She was holding her wife’s hand, Huma, who was also grinning wide and crinkling her light brown eyes.
“Of course,” I said, letting the relief of a closed case wash over me. This was my favorite part of the job. The end result, when the clients are smiling through happy tears. “You won’t be needing to look over your shoulders anymore.”
“Thank you.” Huma was wiping away tears. They both stood up and came around my desk for a hug.
The two walked out of the office, all smiles, both exuding positivity. It made me one happy bloke.
Usually, at least.
Today was not a usual day. No, no. Usually couldn’t be used to describe my life for quite a while now, but especially so in the days after I got back from London. There was a subtle haze over everything in my life. And it all seemed to focus in on the letter that I still couldn’t bring myself to open. The pale white envelope was still sealed tight with my name scrawled across the center in what could only be my father’s handwriting.
But here’s the kicker: Even if I wanted to open it, that wasn’t a possibility anymore. It hadn’t been for the past week
Ever since I lo
st the damn thing.
I sat in my chair, feeling the weight of my mistake fall hard on my shoulders. Why was I such a twat? I should have just opened the letter as soon as it was handed to me. It could have been handled right there and then. Instead, I couldn’t find it anywhere, even after turning my home and my office upside down and inside out.
Funny how much I cared about the letter after it was gone.
The afternoon sunlight broke through the open window behind me and flooded my office in light. It must have been a half an hour that I sat there, racking my brain for any clues as to where I had put it.
A knock on my door threw me out of my thoughts.
“Come in,” I said.
Instantly, I felt like the floor underneath me had given way. Like I started to free-fall out of nowhere.
“Holy shit.”
“Bloody hell,” I said, my eyes wide, my heart suddenly picking up its pace.
“You two, uh, know each other?” Holly’s tone sounded as surprised as I felt.
I nod. “We’ve met before. Back in London. This is… this is so crazy.”
“Crazy,” he said, echoing me, his face reading the same astonishment I was feeling. It felt like I’d laid eyes on a ghost, which, if I’m being technical, he did ghost me. I had texted him. Even called. Then I felt like a fool when I realized the number was sending me to a pizza store that also doubled as an arcade from what the owner told me over the phone.
It sucked, but it was just another dose of rejection to down. The bitter medicine life enjoyed to administer on occasion, just to keep you alive and on your toes. I wasn’t going to hold it against the guy. I’d still help with whatever issue he had.
Holly clapped her hands. We both snapped to, neither of us realizing it had fallen very quiet inside my office.
“All right, well, Beck, you can take Olly’s case, right? I think Angel might have an opening if you’re busy.”
“I can take it. Thank you, Holly.”
She gave a tiny bow and left the office. I could have sworn I heard a couple of giggles trail behind her as she left.
“This is, uh, quite a surprise.” Olly scanned the office as if he were doing anything to avoid my gaze.
Good. It gave me time to look him over, admire the sight I’d been missing. Even though he’d rejected me, I still couldn’t deny that the guy was the embodiment of my sex dreams. And today was no different. He was wearing white shorts that showed off plenty of sexy leg, reminding me of how good they’d felt wrapped around my waist.
“I can’t believe it. Three weeks and you randomly walk into my office. Or, did you know I work here?”
“No, I had no idea.” His eyes settled on mine for a moment before flitting off, further examining the office. “Which is insane, considering you work with my brother.”
“Excuse me, what?”
“My brother. Jonah Brightly.”
“You’re fuckin’ kidding me. Jonah’s your brother? You’re Oliver?”
“Olly, yup.” He was smiling, nodding.
“I can’t… now it makes sense. I thought there was something about you that reminded me of him. And now I remember talking to him months ago, when he told me his little brother was visiting London. I gave him the name of the pub I used to go to as a kid, the one in Kingston.”
“The one I showed up at…”
I nodded, the temperature in my office suddenly feeling ten degrees hotter. The windows were closed and the AC was working just fine. Had to be heat rising from the space between us.
But he never even called. Never sent a text. He had given me the wrong bloody number. That heat is all one-sided.
The reminder was like a bucket of ice dumped over my head. “So what brings you to Stonewall Investigations, Oliver Brightly?” My question cut through the fantasy of the moment. The odds of all this happening were slim to none, and if I were any kind of romantic, I would think fate was toying with us two.
But the romance inside me had wilted away years ago.
“I, uhm, right… Wait, Beckham, before we get into it… I, well, want to ask for your number again. Like your cell phone number, not the number that’s on your business card, which, by the way, these are really well made. Who did you get them from? This is really thick paper. And the gloss on these babies, wow.”
I cocked my head.
“Sorry, I’m blabbering. Your phone number—I’d like it again if you don’t mind.”
Oliver pulled something from his pocket and walked to my desk. He slid his phone across. I grabbed it, my memory recalling a completely different phone when we had done this the first time.
“Did something happen?” I asked, dialing my number into his contacts.
“Yes, the absolute worst happened. I dropped my phone into the sewers right before I got on my flight back home, and nothing was backed up. I definitely mourned the loss of my Leaning Tower of Pisa photo—I mean seriously, I got the angle just right—but I’ve got to admit, I was the most disappointed about losing your number.”
So that explained it. He didn’t ghost me; his phone literally ghosted him.
“So I’ve been talking to a London sewage rat these entire past three weeks?”
Oliver jumped on the joke. “You’ve been catfished. Ratfished? Catrat? Sorry, Beckham.”
“We exchanged pictures…”
Both of us broke into an easy laughter. It felt like pushing an old VHS tape into the VCR, one holding the memories from a close family gathering, your body suddenly flooded with warmth and love. That was how it felt hearing Oliver’s laugh again. The high-pitched, no-care-in-the-world kind of laugh that could spread through a room in seconds flat.
“Perfect,” Oliver said, grabbing his phone back. “You’ve got any crazy glue?”
“No, I don’t think so. Holly might. Why?”
“Good, I’ll ask on my way out. Just want to spread some on my palm and smack this baby on there.” He pointed at his phone before slipping it back into his pocket, both of us still chuckling. This was certainly starting off as one of my most memorable client meetings yet. And considering how the past week had been going for me, this was much needed.
I still can’t believe I lost it…
“All right, wow, I can’t believe you’re the detective I’m hiring, but okay. Let’s do this.” Oliver put a hand on the binder that was now resting in front of him. “Beckham, this is partly inspired because of you. I’ve been dealing with some trauma for six years now. It’s just an open, pus-filled wound at this point. I’ve been able to ignore it for the most part, but that night out with you, it brought everything rushing to the front. The wound was like a truck-sized gash down my chest.”
“Can I?”
Oliver nodded as I reached for the binder. There was a name written across the black cover. It was in silver marker and a shaky script.
Derrick Silva.
“That binder holds everything I’ve been able to put together about the murder of Derrick, my boyfriend.”
“I’m so sorry, Oliver.”
He inhaled deeply. “Don’t be sorry, Beckham. Just be determined. Find the fucker who did this. Find the monster who took a life and broke another.”
I opened the binder, and the first thing I saw were photos. Not of the deceased victim. They were photos of Oliver. He was wearing a white sweatshirt, except the entire front was soaked in dark red blood. Hands were coated in dried crimson. There were bruises underneath his eyes already forming from the hits. Blood dripped from his left ear. A slash went across his shoulder, tearing through the fabric of his sweater, revealing blood-soaked skin underneath.
My heart broke.
As a detective, I’d seen shit that would haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life. It was part of the job. At some point along the way, I’d gotten desensitized to some of the darker aspects of life. It was a necessity if you wanted to close a case. Getting stuck on the gruesome wasn’t an option to consider.
This, though… these photos… the
y were making my hands shake. I set them down before Oliver could notice.
“How badly were you injured?”
“I was beat pretty bad, and they tried to stab me but only got my shoulder. Derrick was stabbed to death. Six times they stabbed him. Two guys came up to us, wearing black ski masks, and they started beating us up. Said they didn’t like two guys holding hands. I’m the type to turn to Jell-O at the first sign of conflict, so naturally, I was already playing dead and hoping they went away like two dumb bears. Derrick, though, he was my opposite. He fought back.”
Oliver was squeezing his hands in his lap. The pain twisting in his expression was clear, but I needed him to tell me everything he remembered from that night.
“Do you know which of the two masked men did the stabbing? Were there any identifiers you can remember? A tattoo, an accent, a limp?”
He shook his head. “All I know is that the shorter of the two men was the one who killed Derrick.”
“And you heard voices. Did they speak a lot?”
“Well, one did. He was the one yelling the homophobic slurs at us while he beat us. The other one wasn’t saying a word. I think… I don’t even remember him landing any kicks now that I think about it. He was a lookout, maybe?”
“Possibly.” The truth of the matter was that there were an infinite amount of “maybes” right now.
“There were no cameras in the alley they pushed us into, so no footage. Unless you can do something with the recurring nightmares I get. That footage is incredibly clear.”
“I will do everything in my power to help stop those nightmares, Oliver.”
He managed a weak smile. It was such a contrast to the bright and eye-crinkling grin he had given me on the night we first me.
“Thank you, Beckham.” He adjusted in the chair, the wood legs creaking as he moved. “And there’s something else…” Oliver chipped at the blue paint on one of his fingernails. “One of them said my name. I told the cops, but they said the assailants probably heard Derrick shouting it. I don’t think so, though. I remember it happening at the very beginning. They knew me. As much as they hated me for being gay, they also hated me for something else… I think whoever attacked us, whoever killed Derrick, they know me…”