Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
GRIFF
The only thing keeping my rage at bay right now is the fact that Phil needs me.
He doesn’t need me yelling and screaming or racing off half-cocked to enact vengeance on some unidentified creep.
He needs me here, or at least nearby, running interference with the cop who’ll want to talk to him, and… something.
Fuck, I really wish I could do something to make this better.
My phone beeps with a text, and I check it.
“The detective will be here in about an hour,” I report, keeping my voice low so it doesn’t bother Phil.
At one point, I was afraid he was going to become catatonic, but he’s responsive.
Right now, he’s staring into space, his face haunted in a way I hate, methodically sipping his tea at regular intervals, almost like a tic.
I glance over at Harold. “Could you make sure he doesn’t run out of that tea?”
He looks confused, but shrugs. “Sure.”
“He might not want it, but if he does—”
“Griff, chill. I got this.” He heads for the kitchen.
“Got anything for me to do?” Xera asks. “I feel useless right now.”
I hesitate. “Well…”
“Anything, Griff,” Blaise says. “We’d do anything for Phil.”
“Would one of you mind going to get my dog? She might not help, but Phil likes cuddling her, and—”
“Say no more.” Xera’s already up, keys in hand. “Dogs are comforting. If Phil doesn’t want cuddles right now, I’ll take them. What’s the address?”
I give it to her, and then as she and Butch leave, I call Bettina and let her know someone’s coming to pick up Vivi.
“Here.” Calla slips out of her seat beside Phil and gestures for me to sit there. “Move before your knees go out or your legs cramp.”
I obey gratefully because my feet were starting to go tingly and numb. Much like the hand Phil’s holding is. I’m pretty sure it’s going to be bruised tomorrow, he’s clinging that tightly, but nothing in this world could make me ask him to let go.
Someone put his face on a fucking doll and stuck a knife through it.
As though he’s thinking the same thing, Jordan says, “What kind of sick bastard does this?”
I glance over. He and Polly are hovering beside the coffee table, staring at the box. Nobody’s touched it—they’ve all watched the same crime dramas I have—but looking can’t destroy evidence.
“Is that the picture from TMZ?” Polly asks. “Not the kissing one, the other one. I think they downloaded that, cut out Phil’s face, and stuck it on.”
Quickly, I check that Phil didn’t hear that. He really liked the TMZ photos of us, especially the kissing one.
“I think I can see a note,” Blaise adds, going to hover beside his boyfriend. “Underneath the doll. There’s the edge of some white paper, see?” He points.
“Don’t touch,” I remind them. “If there’s a note, the police will pull it out.”
Polly sighs and sinks down to sit on the floor. “Calla, do you think this could have been someone in your building?”
She sits beside him and wraps her arms around herself. “No. Maybe? I hope not.”
“Not to be pushy, but how do you think Phil would feel about me buying a place, and you and him living there as caretakers? Because I don’t think I’ll sleep again knowing someone who’d do this was right outside your door.”
I resist the urge to inform them that Phil’s moving in with me. That’s not a decision I can make for him, even if I desperately want to. Hopefully he’ll agree.
“Not the time,” Calla replies, leaning against him and turning her face into his shoulder. “But we’ll talk about it.”
We sit in silence for a while, until Phil’s whimper gets our attention. He’s holding his mug in front of his face, looking into it.
“Where’s Harold?” Blaise asks. “Did he—”
“On it,” Harold says, coming out of the kitchen carrying a big thermos, the kind that holds six cups.
“Here, Phil, let me top you up.” He places a gentle hand on Phil’s wrist to steady the mug, then fills it with steaming tea before putting the cap on the thermos and setting it on the coffee table.
“Lucky timing, but we’ll be ready next round.
” He sits at the other end of the couch, not crowding Phil, but close enough for his presence to be felt.
“So, what do we think this is? Ex-lover? Ex-client? Homophobe who saw the photo and crashed out? Who the hell could want to do this to Phil, of all people?”
I shake my head. I was thinking the same. Phil’s a sweetheart. Even when I thought he was a stuck-up snob, I didn’t think he deserved something like this.
Could someone more prone to overreacting have also misinterpreted a situation? It’s a big leap from “he didn’t talk to me” to “I’m sending him a mutilated effigy.”
“Calla, is there anyone at work who might hold a grudge?” Jordan asks. “Should we organize full-time security for the showroom? I like Kyle, but he’s got other things to do. Plus, he’s too nice.”
Calla hesitates, then says, “We’ll talk about it.
I can’t think of anyone who might do this.
People love Phil. We don’t work with the ones who…
don’t.” Her eyes get big. “Fuck, is this my fault? Do you think it could be one of the clients I declined because I didn’t like the way they acted around him? ”
“It’s probably not,” Blaise soothes. “They would likely have sent you something too. Let’s just wait and see what the cops have to say.” He pauses. “But maybe I should get a pen and we can start making a list.”
Ten minutes later, the list includes a few potentially disgruntled not-clients, two exes nobody liked because of the way they spoke about Phil behind his back—I make a mental note of those names—an ex of Calla’s who became an ex when she went on a diatribe about Phil taking too much of Calla’s attention, and a couple of people who were particularly nasty to Phil back in college.
We’re currently debating whether his family should be added, too, when the front door opens.
“It’s just us,” a voice calls—Butch, I think—and a second later, they appear in the doorway. Xera has Vivi in her arms and looks just as smitten as she should, but the second my dog spots me, she barks and wriggles to get down.
“Hold on to your bow,” Xera chides, bringing her over and setting her in my lap.
A little knot inside me loosens. I knew she was fine with Bettina, but I guess I’m not one of those dog parents who doesn’t worry.
I stroke my free hand over her fur, then scoop her up and angle my body so she’s in Phil’s line of vision. At first, he doesn’t react, but then his gaze sharpens and he lets go of my hand while shoving his mug toward me.
Gladly, I swap him dog for mug, and he cradles Vivi close to his chest, burying his face in her soft fur. She whines and licks his neck but doesn’t try to get away. I knew my girl was a nurturer at heart.
“Thank you,” I tell Xera and Butch, grateful that my place isn’t that far from here.
“Anytime,” Butch assures me.
“We’re just glad it’s helping,” Xera tacks on. “Have we thought of anything that might be helpful?”
Blaise looks at the list. “Not really. What’s your vote—could someone in Phil’s family have done this?”
Xera shakes her head, but it’s not a negative. “I wouldn’t know. I never met them.”
“Only once for me, at his graduation,” Butch offers. “I hated how they talked to him, but I don’t know if that means they’d do this.”
The debate continues, but I tune it out. It’s not like I could contribute anything, and I’d rather watch Phil and Vivi.
When the doorbell finally rings, half of us jump. We’ve been waiting for it, but it still shocks us. Jordan gets up to answer, and I stand as well, then shoot Phil an agonized look. I want to talk to the detective before he comes in here, but I don’t want to leave my guy when he’s so vulnerable.
“Go,” Harold says softly, sitting up and moving closer. “We’ve got this, and it’s only for a minute.”
I hesitate a second longer, then step away. Blaise is in my seat before I’ve even reached the doorway.
I’m glad he has friends like this.
As I reach them at the front door, Jordan’s greeting a tall Black man in chinos and a button-down with a backpack slung over one shoulder.
The man holds up his badge. “Detective Spears, LAPD. Is one of you Griff Pevensy?” He looks from me to Jordan, then does a double take. “Jordan Marks?” To his credit, his voice stays even and professional.
“Hi,” Jordan says, offering a hand for him to shake. “This is Griff.”
“Thanks for coming,” I add, shaking his hand also and then stepping back so he can come in and Jordan can close the door.
“I’m sorry you need me to. Hanna Weston called and said you had a stalker situation?”
“My boyfriend does. He’s in the living room, but there are a few things you should know first.”
His face immediately closes over. “I’ll need to speak with him.”
“Yes, of course, but he’s not verbal at the moment. Phil has selective mutism. He’s extremely anxious right now and uncommunicative. Would it be okay if we explained what happened and showed you the box? Hopefully by then he’ll be calm enough to answer some questions.”
Spears relaxes a little. “It’s normal in situations like this for people to experience anxiety, and if there’s a pre-existing anxiety disorder, it’s even worse.
I will need to meet him before I leave today.
I’d also like to interview him, but if he’s not up to it, I can come back another time for that. ”
Jordan exhales, and I know how he feels. I was prepared to go toe to toe with the detective if he turned out to be one of those “anxiety doesn’t exist” asshats. I’m glad he seems willing to give Phil space. “Thank you. We really appreciate that.”
“You said he’s nonverbal—should I arrange for an ASL translator?”
I shake my head. “No, that’s not necessary. When he’s not able to speak, he’ll use his phone or a pen to write out what he wants to say.”
Spears nods. “Good, good. Okay, well, before we go in there and confront him with a stranger, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
I wonder if the LAPD trains their officers on how to deal with people who have anxiety, or if this guy’s just a special case, because so far, he’s checking every box. “There was a package outside the apartment door,” I begin, and he holds up a hand.
“It wasn’t here?”
I shake my head. “No, this is Jordan’s house. We were at Phil’s apartment—do you want the address?”
He swings his backpack off his shoulder and fishes a notepad and pen out. “Yeah. Do you mind if I take notes?”
“Go for it.” I tell him Phil’s address, then continue, “We were running late to come here, and Calla almost tripped over the box—”
“Calla?”
“Calla Gardner, Phil’s roommate and business partner. She’s here, so you’ll be able to talk to her.”
“Great. Before we go on, what’s Phil’s full name and occupation?”
“Philip Marchand. He’s the co-owner and head designer of the fashion label Phallacy.”
His gaze comes up. “That’s why you look familiar. I thought you might be another ball player, but you’re the guy who was on the TMZ site this week. My wife showed me the pictures, was talking about you and your guy and how it’s gross that your privacy was invaded.”
“Your wife sounds like a classy woman. Yeah, that was us.”
He writes something in his notebook, then says, “Go on. Calla found the package…”
“She stuck it in her bag without looking at it, and none of us thought about it until she went to get something—cheese—and found it again. It had Phil’s name on it, but no address, and there’s a doll inside with one of those TMZ photos of his face stuck on.
There’s a knife stabbed through the doll. ”
Spears’s mouth presses into a line as he writes. “Did you touch the doll or the knife? And who touched the box?”
“Nobody touched anything inside the box,” I assure him. “The outside… uh, Phil. Calla. Me, when I took it from Phil.” I glance at Jordan. “That’s it, right?”
He nods. “Yeah, none of the rest of us touched it, unless Harold did before you got here. But he wouldn’t have gone rummaging through Calla’s bag.”
“I don’t suppose the building has a doorman or CCTV?”
Jordan laughs outright, and I grimace. “Not that kind of building.”
Spears sighs. “Is it secure, at least? Or can anyone walk in?”
I pull a face. I’ve only been there once, but… “Technically, it’s secure, but last night, someone had propped the door open for the pizza delivery guy. So I’m not sure how secure it actually is.”
“Okay. Let’s go look at that box.”