《Will I?》


 PROLOGUE

    Four bodies. Four bodies was a pretty good starting line. Grandad could name every British and American politician under the sun, he could even dabble in the French government from time to time, but disappointingly he wasn¡¯t smart enough to notice his peppermint tea tasted just a little bit like poison. Mother could cook a delicious feast for the entire village in a single afternoon, three courses and all, yet confusingly didn¡¯t spot that one of her expensive Japanese knives had gone missing, not until it turned up in her carotid artery at least, spewing blood all over her newly polished floors - a shame, truly. Father could recite every verse from the Bible by heart and would willingly do so every chance he got; over dinner, on a hike, once even in the shower. It¡¯s fitting, really, that he died by the crucifix just like his saviour, even if it wasn¡¯t quite by way of the same method. I¡¯m sure Jesus would understand that a brass effigy of his crucifixion driven straight through the eye and into the brain was the best a boy could do, given the resources. Older brothers are trickier, sly, they always seem to see things coming. Incredibly annoying, except, of course, when said brother ever so clumsily takes the wrong medication. He never even noticed when the small, round, white pills our parents don¡¯t know he takes every night turned into little yellowish capsules. Poor thing was too busy stuffing them down his throat and waiting for the brain-altering clarity of his school mate¡¯s Ritalin to seep in so he could perform at his best. I did him a favour, honestly, he¡¯s lucky to have me.


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    So you see, Arlo, my family''s carelessness with their lives was never my fault. Their need to force me into a cage and morph my brain and body into something unrecognisably horrific made them ugly and hostile. They saw who I was, they got their jaws around me and they bit. They ate away at me until there was nothing left. And what do you do with old dogs who bite?


    You put them down.

 CHAPTER 1

    The noon light pours through the thin curtains and onto Elijah¡¯s sunglasses that are still perched crooked upon his nose from last night¡¯s migraine. The sound of guests bustling through the hotel corridor on the other side of the wall brings him out of his groggy state and back into the world of the living. He needed to get out before the cleaning crew found him in this unbooked and supposedly uninhabited room and called security. This wasn¡¯t the first time he¡¯d stolen a room keycard to avoid the ugly fate of sleeping rough on the streets - it wasn¡¯t even the fiftieth - he had become quite the connoisseur of sneaking into places he shouldn¡¯t be since he¡¯d been orphaned and left homeless, penniless, and starving at the age of twelve.


    He doesn¡¯t bother to check his reflection as he passes the mirror, knowing exactly what he would see; his long, ashy-brown hair that touches his shoulder blades and curls back up ever so slightly at the ends scattered with grey strands almost everywhere you look. Cutting it seemed wrong somehow, perhaps this was his one last act of defiance against his painfully conservative family who assumed the church would come to crucify them if they allowed their son¡¯s hair to grow past his ears. Or perhaps he just liked the way it looked on him. The dark circles around his eyes from the rough nights and the sickly paleness of his skin were just more reasons to not look in the mirror. If he was going to go about his day, he was going to do it acting like he¡¯s the sexiest man on the street, ready to stun eligible bachelors and break hearts, rather than this weak, run-down version of himself. Despite life not exactly turning out ideally, Elijah was ever the optimist, even when nobody could see. He would have his moments, sure, like last night when he had to hotwire a car, drive out into the middle of nowhere and dump a body, he was a little miffed, but only because he could have been in his free hotel room watching reruns of Kitchen Nightmares and raiding the mini-bar for crispy M&Ms.


    Straightening his plaid, button-down shirt, he silently slips out of the door and joins the parade of people hurriedly dragging their suitcases and poorly-packed bags toward the only working lift in the building. With the stolen keycard clutched in his hand, he makes a quick left just before he gets to the rowdy hotel crowd and takes the many flights of stairs down to the lobby. Nobody suspects that he didn¡¯t belong, why would they? Most of the staff in the lobby are underpaid and overtired, they¡¯re not paying attention to him in the slightest. Not to mention, the fact that checking out merely requires you to deposit your keycard in an unmanned box and leave the building makes exiting unseen incredibly easy.


    The sun is almost too hot to bear and Elijah briefly considers ripping his clothes off and waltzing through town in his underwear to combat the unavoidable heatstroke. Pushing the urge aside, though, he heads off in the direction of the nearest tea shop to spend the loose change he found last night in the purse of a young woman who had so clumsily left it in his peripheral vision. He counts out the coins. ¡°¡ê4.48, looks like someone¡¯s getting a muffin with his tea today,¡± he laughs to himself gleefully. The English countryside had no shortage of independent tea shops and cafes to choose from, so Elijah rarely had to show his face in one twice, which helped when things got a little bit messy. He had never settled in one place for long enough to have anybody remember or recognise him, a fact that worked in his favour considering the complications he usually caused. He walks aimlessly along the cobblestone path until he stops in front of a cosy-looking mint green building with cute chalkboard menus holding the promise of tea and cakes. Perfect for today¡¯s only goals of a mug of peppermint tea and a lemon drizzle muffin.


    ¡°Is that everything for you?¡± Asks the employee behind the till, wearing a pink pastel apron and a minimum-wage kind of smile.


    ¡°That¡¯ll be it!¡± Elijah responds with such alert optimism that he swears he could see the employee physically take a step back and roll their eyes as they turned away to serve another person. Elijah was always aware that others tended to find him just a bit ¡®too much¡¯, but he always lacked the capacity to care. He was happy. It wasn¡¯t his fault that no one else was. He was simply happy.


    He could have easily spent the entire day in that little tea shop, eavesdropping on the various couplings and families that came in and out, being nosy at a web designer¡¯s laptop when he left it unoccupied to go to the bathroom, picking at his lemon drizzle muffin as if it was his last meal and he had to somehow make it last lest he starve to death by dinnertime, but the women on the table behind him seemed to be hell-bent on disturbing his peace. There were three of them, Elijah could see their reflection in the glass in front of him so he didn¡¯t have to ogle at the table to know that two of them were in a relationship.


    ¡°This has to be some kind of a joke.¡± The third woman. Older. Spiteful tone. Mother. ¡°You¡¯re not a dyke! You¡¯ll meet a nice man one day, have a little patience.¡± She thinks she¡¯s talking indiscreetly, but in reality at least half of the tea shop just heard her disgusting intolerance toward her daughter and her girlfriend. Disappointingly, yet predictably, that same half are also bound to do absolutely nothing about it, because if it isn¡¯t their business, they don¡¯t care, they never have.


    ¡°This is why I haven¡¯t spoken to you in six months, mum. Why can¡¯t you just be happy for me?¡± Why, indeed. That¡¯s the big question, isn¡¯t it? Why can¡¯t people just be happy for people? Why is there this incessant need to contradict? To fight? To look someone you¡¯re supposed to love unconditionally in the eye and say, ¡®you¡¯re living incorrectly¡¯?


    ¡°How are you and this woman going to give me my grandchildren?¡±


    ¡°We could adopt, we could-¡±


    ¡°I will NOT raise a grandchild that is not mine, that¡¯s absurd!¡± Her voice has risen to a shriek at this point and Elijah decides he¡¯s heard enough. That feeling, that damn feeling was crawling back up through his chest just threatening to burst out of him. He felt like he was going to explode from the blood pounding in his ears and his brain screaming. Screaming at the woman, screaming at his family, screaming at the passerby on the street who gave him one of those ¡°I know what you¡¯re hiding¡± type looks. He was happy, he wanted to be happy, but people just kept getting in the way.


    He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and feels the small, glass bottle he¡¯s been carrying around for years. He didn¡¯t always use it - sometimes it was broken glass in the alley, sometimes it was his bare hands, once it was a gun, but the bottle was always a safe option to go back to. He didn¡¯t really know exactly what it contained, just that it was lethal. He had stolen it from his grandfather¡¯s special ¡°hunting¡± cabinet twelve years ago. Whether or not the things in there were actually used for hunting wildlife or something else remained to be discovered, but that hardly mattered any more. He would wait for the couple to leave and for the shrew to go to the bathroom and then spike her tea with the poison. Yeah, that sounds plausible. He sighs. That wouldn¡¯t work, what if the couple didn¡¯t leave first? What if the mother doesn¡¯t leave her tea unattended? He had a conundrum and seemingly no solution. He sits for a while longer, hand still clasped around the bottle, woman still shouting abuse at her daughter despite the other diners complaining to the staff. But the staff doesn¡¯t get paid enough to confront a volatile homophobe on an intolerant tirade, no one does. Elijah begins to accept that there¡¯s no good window of opportunity when a sudden loud noise from the front door startles him out of his concentration.


    The door swung open so violently that the little bell almost flew straight off its hook, ¡°Everything from the cash register, in this bag, now!¡± There are three of them, no more than twenty years of age, trying to rob an innocent independent tea shop. You could shake a bag of coins and get three higher-class criminals than these boys, and most of the sample pool in question is pushing seventy. The leader of the group has a pistol that he¡¯s waving around in a lame attempt to scare the customers under their tables, which is working for the most part, except Elijah hasn¡¯t yet finished his peppermint tea and has absolutely no intention of being bullied to the floor. One of the boys rounds on him,


    ¡°Under your table, right now.¡± The boy¡¯s fixing Elijah with a glare so ludicrous he almost laughs right in his face. Instead, he takes a sip of his tea.


    ¡°Nah.¡± The boy blinks, hesitates, and readjusts his stance. Clearly no one prepared the baby criminal for this particular response. He clears his throat and his glare becomes even more intense.


    ¡°On. The. Floor. Pretty boy!¡±


    ¡°You flatter me. It¡¯s the hair, isn¡¯t it? Don¡¯t worry, it gets everyone, you¡¯re not the first man to call me pretty because of it.¡± Elijah shoots him a dazzling smile, winks, and takes another sip of his tea which, of course, drives the boy into a complete fury. He reaches for Elijah¡¯s hair and pulls on it so hard that he slides right off his chair and his head hits the floor. ¡°Whew, take me to dinner first, Jesus Christ!¡± He laughs a little, dizzy, and mutters to himself, ¡°Manners, manners, manners, so hard to find in criminals these days.¡±


    The one accosting the employee for the money turns to flag down the others, ¡°Come on boys, we¡¯re almost done here.¡±


    Elijah just can¡¯t help himself, he never could. He begins to giggle and the robbers slowly turn to look at him on the floor with pure anger and confusion in their eyes. ¡°I¡¯m sorry boys,¡± he gasps out between giggles, ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, I don¡¯t mean to diminish your whole ¡®tough guy¡¯ act, I know this is a big moment for you, but I just think that if you want to pursue a life of crime, you should probably invest in a real gun and not that fake piece of shite.¡± The boy clutching the gun looks absolutely furious and perhaps even ready to fire it - if it were real, of course. ¡°I¡¯m just saying, if the goal is to be accepted into the big boy mafia - or whatever it is that criminals hope to do one day - you¡¯re probably not going to want to walk into a top secret evil lair with a gun-shaped novelty lighter.¡± Elijah grins at them as their poorly-masked faces turn increasingly more red. One of them opens their mouth to speak when there¡¯s another sound and all their heads whip around to the road. The sound of sirens starts faintly and then reaches a deafening crescendo as two police cars pull up outside the tea shop.


    The chaos that ensues next is nothing short of, well, chaotic. One of the three robbers yells ¡°SCATTER!¡±, and they go sprinting down the road at top speed, two police officers in pursuit, meanwhile, the other people in the shop are emerging from under their tables, some angry and yelling, some frightened, some in fits of nervous laughter, and almost all of them hustling toward the door to leave the residence as quickly as they can. None of them are successful though, due to the fact that two more policemen are now entering the shop, attempting to calm everyone down and regain the peace, much to no avail. One of them bellows for silence and the crowd reluctantly obeys.


    ¡°We know you¡¯re all a bit rattled, and if you¡¯d like to leave then by all means you may do so quietly. But if anybody saw a face or has any information on those people just now then I ask you to please stay and let me or my partner know. Thank you.¡± The officer sounds annoyed, a bored glare stuck to his facial features. Almost everybody decides to leave. Elijah contemplates leaving too, just for a second - he had no interest in providing a witness statement for a small-town tea shop robbery, especially with a bottle of poison in his pocket that he was just about to spike a woman¡¯s tea with - but something stops him in his tracks. Behind the large, loud-mouthed, glowering man he had made the snap-judgement to dislike, he sees the other officer illuminated by the sun in the doorway, scratching the back of his hair nervously. It was clearly his first robbery, possibly even his first day altogether. He stood as if he were ready to sprint away at a moment''s notice, and his eyes kept darting around the room, all too readily scanning for threats. Elijah couldn¡¯t determine if it was nervousness or eagerness making the officer seem quite so jumpy, but whatever it was, he found it rather endearing.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    There were just three people left in the tea shop. Elijah, the employee behind the counter, and an older man who didn¡¯t care in the slightest that a gun was just being waved around, he only wanted to finish his crumpet. ¡°No, I don¡¯t have any bloody information for you, leave me or lose it, copper!¡± Typically the police force probably would have called that a threat, but Elijah supposed the system wasn¡¯t about to crumble under the angst of one eighty-year-old and his newspaper. The larger, louder officer leaves the man and turns to speak to his partner who¡¯s still stood, fidgety, by the door.


    ¡°Maxwell, go help that man up off the floor and question him.¡± In all the commotion Elijah had forgotten to get back up onto his chair, and instead was sat cross-legged right where he had been thrown. ¡°I¡¯ll question the employee, and then we can leave. I¡¯d like to get back to the precinct and onto a real case rather than this babysitting gig ASAP.¡±


    The nervous officer - Maxwell, apparently - makes his way over to Elijah and gives him a genuine, if not shaky, smile. ¡°Hi, sir, my name is Detective Maxwell, may I ask you a few questions?¡± He stutters a little, which Elijah finds absolutely adorable and makes him beam in response. He¡¯s too busy playing I-Spy with the detective¡¯s freckles to answer his question right away. After a few seconds Maxwell hesitates and then


    crouches down to Elijah¡¯s level, ¡°Sir?¡±


    ¡°Is this your first case?¡± The sudden response seems to catch the detective off guard.


    ¡°Uh, yes. Yes it is, sir. If you could just answer some-¡±


    ¡°Sit down with me.¡± Maxwell hesitates, looks cautiously over his shoulder at his partner, and swallows. After what feels like centuries of deliberation - although it couldn¡¯t have been more than about four seconds - he sits cross-legged across from Elijah. They make the most fleeting of eye contact before Maxwell clears his throat and pulls out a small notepad and pen.


    ¡°So, um, what¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°Elijah Asher.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Mr. Asher, and what-¡±


    ¡°Eli.¡± The detective¡¯s head shoots up from his notepad at the sudden interruption, ¡°Call me Eli, Detective, not Mr. Asher.¡± Elijah¡¯s expression shifts for a split second, ¡°Please.¡± Maxwell¡¯s eyes seemed to be searching for something across Eli¡¯s face. There was a shred, just a shred, of suspicion about this guy, a nagging feeling that Maxwell couldn¡¯t seem to shift, but nothing strong enough to overpower the charming smile Eli was flashing at him, so he let it go.


    ¡°Okay, Eli, what can you tell me about the robbers?¡± Elijah dives into a full recount of the events of the afternoon down to the very last detail. His memory was pristine; he could remember the licence plate number of the very first car he stole, the very first sentences of the letters he sent to all three of his ex-lovers, and the exact cookie recipe his mother invented to win over the neighbours, so recounting a crime that had happened mere minutes ago was childsplay. Whilst Eli was talking, Detective Maxwell was hurriedly scribbling down every single word he uttered, relevant or not. Elijah periodically slipped in ludicrous metaphors and anecdotes just to see if the detective would write them down. He did.


    Ten minutes and a handful of nonsensical metaphors later, Maxwell finally puts down his pen. Boots appear by his side and both boys look up at the intrusion of Detective Loud-Mouth.


    ¡°Having fun on the ground, are we? Get the hell up, Maxwell.¡± Maxwell wastes absolutely no time in doing as he¡¯s told, clearly intimidated by his partner. He scratches the back of his hair again sheepishly and shrugs his shoulders - a nervous tic that Elijah doesn¡¯t suppose will ever get any less cute - and clears his throat one last time.


    ¡°If you think of anything else please call the precinct and ask for either myself or Detective Torres here. Thank you for your cooperation Mr. Ash- uh, I mean, Eli.¡± Torres walks briskly out of the tea shop as Elijah and Detective Maxwell share one last warm smile. Elijah clutches the small scrap of paper with the precinct¡¯s phone number written on it tightly.


    ¡°Bye, Detective.¡±


    ?


    Arlo follows Detective Torres out of the tea shop and back into the police car. His first ever case as a junior detective and he humiliates himself by having floor time with a witness. Sure, it was just a minor robbery, but the look on Torres¡¯ face told him exactly how bad of a decision that was. He scratches the back of his hair and tries to act nonchalant.


    ¡°So, got anything good from the employee, Mateo?¡± If looks could kill, Arlo would be six feet under.


    ¡°Did I say you could call me that?¡± Arlo shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ¡°I¡¯m ¡®Detective Torres¡¯ to you, got it? We are not friends.¡±


    ¡°Got it.¡± Arlo responds quietly. This isn¡¯t how he imagined his first partnership to be. He pictured precinct antics and camaraderie, not passive aggression and feeling like he was back in school. He had wanted to be a detective for as long as he could remember. He would often think about how lucky he was that his lifelong dream had never changed, that he passed the exam, that he got a place in his precinct, but he couldn¡¯t help feeling just a tad ungrateful that he got the partner from hell. Torres probably felt the same.


    The drive back to the precinct is long, tedious, and silent. Arlo passes the time by flicking through his countless pages of, admittedly mainly useless, notes. He flips back to the first page. Elijah Asher. He¡¯s known people before to have preferred names, to insist on nicknames, but there was something about the way Eli reacted to being called ¡®Mr. Asher¡¯ that Arlo just couldn¡¯t shake. The expression that shadowed his face in the moment was¡­ disgust? Shame? It was only momentary but Arlo noticed, and it bothered him.


    The precinct, as usual, was hectic and rowdy. Too many detectives and not enough space - nothing new there. Arlo and Detective Torres push their way through the police force and their respective piles of paperwork until they get to the Captain¡¯s office. As it was Arlo¡¯s first case, the Captain wanted updates on everything they did. He couldn¡¯t figure out whether it felt more like surveillance or good old-fashioned babysitting. Torres knocks on the glass door.


    ¡°Come in.¡± Captain Huxley spins around in her chair and shoots them both a friendly yet authoritative smile. ¡°How was your first excursion into the big bad world of crime, Detective Maxwell?¡± Arlo grins, recognising her teasing manner. For all the bad partners he was bound to have, he was grateful that he had such a pleasant Captain. He was well aware, of course, that she also had the capacity to fatally maim him if he so much as missed a comma in his write-ups, but it wasn¡¯t in his plan to see that side of her any time soon. Arlo and Torres fill Captain Huxley in with all the details of the robbery and are swiftly dismissed.


    Exiting the office, Torres looks at Arlo and scoffs, ¡°It was only a pansy-ass tea shop robbery, you don¡¯t have to look so bloody proud of yourself.¡± Arlo¡¯s content smile is replaced with something a lot more sombre, and Torres stalks off somewhere, assumedly delighted that his babysitting road trip is finally over.


    ¡°Wanker.¡± Arlo breathes, when he¡¯s sure that Torres is out of earshot.


    He returns to his assigned desk and puts his head in his hands, taking a moment to recover from the bizarre day he¡¯s having, when he feels his phone vibrate shortly in his pocket.


    sup mofo


    how''s the big shot detective life?


    arrest anyone yet???


    Cara. He forgot to call.


    Cara Maxwell, Arlo¡¯s irritatingly successful twin sister, was truly a force to be reckoned with. For all the pouring over law books for days on end Arlo did, Cara was having the time of her life programming software to rival Microsoft by the time they were sixteen. If you think being the sibling of the genius kid was torture enough, try being the twin of one.


    Arlo was proud of and loved his sister just like any other brother would, but he couldn¡¯t say that moving so far away from her and the rest of his family was a mistake, per se. It worked. It got a little lonely at times, but it worked. Despite the differences they so obviously had, though, Cara adored Arlo, there was no doubt about that.


    no arrests yet, but i did cosy up to a witness on the floor of a tea shop in front of torres like a fucking idiot


    ¡°Why were you on the floor, and with whom?¡± Cara didn¡¯t even bother to say hello when Arlo picked up the phone.


    He sighed, ¡°There was this one guy who witnessed the robbery and he wouldn¡¯t get off the floor so I just kind of¡­ sat down with him.¡±


    ¡°Let me get this right. You sat on a dirty cafe floor with a stranger?¡±


    ¡°Mhmm.¡±


    ¡°You?¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡±


    ¡°Arlo Maxwell, the socially anxious germaphobe, sat on a dirty cafe floor with a stranger?¡±


    ¡°Was there a reason for this call apart from asking me the same question twenty times? Also, I¡¯m not a child anymore!¡± Arlo rolled his eyes.


    ¡°You don¡¯t outgrow ¡®anxious germaphobe¡¯, my guy. Was he cute?¡±


    ¡°Uh, sorry?¡±


    ¡°The guy on the floor, was he cute?¡±


    ¡°I- he-¡± Arlo was spluttering annoyedly at this point, ¡°What does that matter?!¡±


    ¡°Calm down, it¡¯s okay, I¡¯m just teasing!¡± Cara was giggling and Arlo couldn¡¯t help the small smile that began to spread on his face. ¡°Seriously though, was everything okay? Torres didn¡¯t run you ragged for it?¡±


    Arlo put his head in his hands once more, ¡°He wasn¡¯t exactly happy with me, Cara.¡± He hears her sigh.


    ¡°I don¡¯t see what the big deal even is. Is sitting on the floor, like, some kind of taboo in the police world?¡±


    Arlo chuckles lightly, ¡°Torres told me to help the guy up. Instead I just dropped to the floor without even bothering to try. It was just humiliating, I guess. Unprofessional. I want to impress him.¡±


    ¡°I get that. Sorry mate, I really hope it gets better for you soon.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, me too.¡±


    ¡°Listen, I have to get back to work, but text me whenever, okay? Promise, Arlo?¡± Arlo squeezes his eyes shut. He hates promising to text, he never actually does.


    ¡°Yeah. Okay, Cara.¡± The siblings say their goodbyes and Arlo hangs up the phone, undecided on whether it¡¯s made him feel better or worse.


    He sits for a moment, trying to tune out the ruckus happening on every side of him, then suddenly he whips his phone back out. Opening the browser, he types in ¡®Elijah Asher¡¯ and waits for the page to load.


    Photos, social media, LinkedIn pages, websites, everything that could possibly pop up, popped up. Turns out Elijah Asher isn¡¯t the most uncommon name in the world, but nevertheless Arlo set to work sifting through the mountains of different people to find something, anything that linked back to this mystery man. He shouldn¡¯t be so sceptical over somebody who was absolutely none of his business, but he was an itch. He was an itch that had yet to be scratched.


    Fifteen minutes passed.


    Thirty.


    An hour.


    Nothing.

 CHAPTER 2

    After the events of the tea shop, Elijah found himself wandering aimlessly around the streets, completely devoid of ideas on how to pass the time. He couldn¡¯t stop his mind from replaying his entire interaction with Detective Maxwell over and over again, each time overthinking more little things he said or did, to the point of obsession. There was just something about him that Elijah couldn¡¯t shake. Perhaps it was his freckles he spent so long observing, or maybe that cute way he scratched his hair when he was nervous, or even the way his dark hair looked as if it was glowing blue when he was in the sun. Whatever it was, Elijah was going a little crazy over it. This was nothing new, of course, he had a tendency to go full fairytale when he so much as glimpsed an attractive man walking past him on the street. Some would call him a romantic, most would just see him as he was - alone. He fidgets with the scrap of paper Maxwell gave him as he walks, and considers his next move. He had nowhere to sleep - going back to the same hotel would be too risky, the room wasn¡¯t likely to be unbooked two nights in a row. He had no money left, and, quite frankly, he was bored as hell. People-watching from a park bench, then. A dull and all too common plan B.


    Hours pass as Elijah enters a sort of meditative state on the uncomfortable wooden bench. He watches as groups of friends rush past him in a noisy haze, jumping up and attempting to swing on tree branches that would never hold their weight, giggling and cheering when their friends inevitably fall flat. Elijah secretly craved that kind of friendship and fun that he so bitterly missed out on in his tormented childhood. Instead of parties and sleepovers it was homeschooling and beatings. Instead of birthdays at the cinema it was bible verses and Catholic guilt. Whenever he would let slip any kind of indication that he liked boys more than girls - as he well knew for as long as he could remember - his father didn¡¯t hug him and tell him he loved him anyway, not even close, his mother cried and his grandfather locked him in the basement for three days, forbidding his brother from speaking to him. Elijah lays down on the bench, brings his knees to his chest and rolls over so he¡¯s facing the backrest. Reminiscing about his family was the last thing he ever wanted to do, but the mind is a cruel machine, and the memories plague him more often than he¡¯d like. He squeezes his eyes shut and hopes for a little quiet in his brain.


    Elijah startles awake. He must¡¯ve dozed off at some point, because the sun is setting and he can smell alcohol in the air. The barely-of-age drunkards from the nearby pub had started their nightly migration to the park, where they could lay in the grass and piss in the bushes - by far the most fascinatingly stupid way to waste one¡¯s youth in the 21st century. He can feel somebody loitering in his general area so he remains still for a while longer. Pretty soon his suspicions are confirmed by the sound of the mystery figure accepting a phone call and slurring, ¡°Hello?¡±.


    Elijah struggles to grasp most of the conversation as half of it is drunken nonsense and the other half is belching, but of the snippets he does hear, he can piece together the context. It¡¯s certainly not a conversation he particularly wants to be listening to. If he was to take a guess, he¡¯d say that the person on the other end of the phone is a friend - most likely also completely hammered - who has a brother who¡¯s expecting a baby with his husband, but drunk guy number two quite clearly seems to disagree with his brother¡¯s decision, leading him to phone drunk guy number one because assumedly he¡¯s the first person he would think would participate willingly in his homophobic rage, evident by the sheer amount of discriminatory language being hurled across the park right now. Ain¡¯t friends grand? So supportive.


    That red hot feeling is back. It starts in Elijah¡¯s stomach and fizzles up his throat as if his body¡¯s threatening to throw up molten lava. He can feel his face heating up and his fists clench. He doesn¡¯t want to do this, he really doesn¡¯t. He wants to calm down, to ignore it, to be fine, to be happy. He blinks, the world spins, and the next thing he knows he¡¯s snatched the phone out of the drunk¡¯s hand, hung up, and flung it to the ground. He hears nothing but ringing in his ears as his arm locks around the man¡¯s neck and he drags him behind the bush line. The man is screaming something whilst he kicks and thrashes against him, but Elijah can¡¯t hear it. He can¡¯t hear anything. The world¡¯s gone mute, his mind; blank. Peace, at last. He pulls the drunk to the ground and straddles him, pinning his arms to the ground with his knees. Before he knows it, he¡¯s giggling, knowing what this would look like to any passerby who decides to interrupt them. Two men, behind the bushes in the park, under dusklight, one on top of the other - the irony of the situation wasn¡¯t lost on him. It was only for a second, though, because by the next one Elijah was already forcing the man¡¯s mouth open and pouring a drop of the liquid from that little glass bottle into it. He doesn¡¯t dare move until the man stops convulsing and lies still, pulse gone - dead.


    Elijah breathes heavily, still pinning the man, until the fizzling in his throat subsides and his hearing returns. He didn¡¯t want to do this, he didn¡¯t. He looks down at the man and feels a pang of¡­ guilt? Well, of course he felt guilty, that¡¯s the correct emotion to feel when you kill someone, isn¡¯t it? Elijah didn¡¯t know. He scrambles to his feet and his eyes dart around for the man¡¯s phone. He had to make sure he tied up any loose ends before destroying it - standard practice for an impromptu park murder. He sends out a quick text to all his contacts with some manufactured story about needing some time away to recover and heal from the pain that lead him toward alcoholism, and smashes the phone to pieces with a jagged rock. It¡¯s not the most elegant solution, Elijah admits, but he was in public, he had no time for a more thought-out story. As luck would have it, the park ran directly alongside a canal that looked deep enough to hide a body, at least for a little while. Elijah sets to work stuffing the man¡¯s clothes and pockets with the heaviest rocks he can find, checks the coast is clear, and then grabs the man by the feet and drags him the short way to the canal, staying behind the bush line for as much of the journey as he can. He rolls the body into the (thankfully) murky water, praying that there¡¯s enough weight on the man for him to sink to the bottom. Once he sees the bubbles cease and the body disappear, he takes off sprinting in the opposite direction. That wasn¡¯t guilt he felt. It was nostalgia.


    By the time Elijah slows down, it¡¯s pitch black. His only means of sight; flickering street lights, not even the stars had bothered to come out that night. He doubles over, hands on his knees, and attempts to catch his breath. His legs burn and he has a painful stitch in his right side, he must¡¯ve been sprinting for at least an hour. He looks around, searching for some kind of indication of where he¡¯s ended up, but he seems to have run so far out of town that all he can see is rows upon rows of dimly lit, tall, Victorian-style houses.


    ¡°Shit.¡± He breathes heavily and then quietly begins to laugh to himself, ¡°That¡¯s my exercise done for the year. Now, where the fuck am I?¡± Thinking hard, Elijah turns in circles, trying to figure out his next move. He squints and just about manages to make out the outline of a telephone box in the distance. He still had the number of the precinct crumpled up in his pocket. Should he? Was it even a remotely good idea to call a police precinct after you had just committed a murder? Probably not. But Elijah was lost in the night, had no other resources, and certainly wouldn''t mind talking to one dark-haired, freckled detective again. Besides, good judgement was never his strong suit.


    Jogging up to the box, he prayed he had enough change left over from the tea shop to make a phone call. He pulls what¡¯s left out of his pocket and sighs. Providing the telephone box took five pence coins and didn¡¯t spit anything back out, he should be fine. He deposits his last three coins - one ten pence and two fives - and thankfully the dilapidated machine takes them with no trouble. Uncrumpling the paper, he dials the number. Elijah swallows, suddenly nervous.


    ¡°Hello?¡±


    ?


    The rest of Arlo¡¯s shift went so slowly he could¡¯ve sworn he was at his desk for three days straight. Witness. Paperwork. Interrogation. Paperwork. Criminal. Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. Piling up and up on his desk, the ever-growing stack of files never seemed to go down. His eight-year-old self would never have guessed that being a detective would include filling out so many forms. If he¡¯d have known, he probably would¡¯ve followed his dream of being a dinosaur-tamer instead. Despite the tedious data entry and the unsavoury partner, however, there were some highlights to Arlo¡¯s day. Most notably, Officer Sophie Lake, whom he had met in the break room and had spent a full hour with being shown photos of her various dogs. He looks up at the clock and watches the second hand meet the minute hand at twelve.


    ¡°Working overtime, Maxwell?¡± Speak of the devil. ¡°It¡¯s eight already, go home.¡± Arlo looks up at Sophie with her motorbike helmet under her arm and smiles.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t even notice. I¡¯d probably just be working at home anyway. Reports don¡¯t write themselves.¡± He chuckles lightly, a sort of sad chuckle that he was sure Sophie would¡¯ve picked up on had she not just received a text. She sighs.


    ¡°God damn it.¡± She breathes, barely audibly.


    ¡°Everything okay?¡± Arlo asks.


    ¡°Huh?¡± She quickly looks back at him, ¡°Oh! Yeah, no, everything¡¯s fine, my wife¡¯s parents are just coming to dinner. They¡¯re not exactly the most tolerant of people so we eloped instead of having a big fancy wedding and apparently they¡¯ve just found out.¡± She rolls her eyes and shoots Arlo a sad smile, ¡°Family drama, never boring.¡±


    Arlo returns her sad smile with his own and nods slowly, ¡°I know what you mean. My parents still haven¡¯t really come to terms with me either, just one more reason I moved here.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you¡¯re¡­?¡±


    ¡°Pan.¡±


    ¡°Oh, nice.¡±


    ¡°And demi, which makes the whole family approval thing extra complicated.¡±


    ¡°Oh Jesus, I can¡¯t even imagine.¡± Sophie looks at Arlo sympathetically.


    ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s a tough one. I mean, how do you tell your mother who¡¯s always wanted great grandchildren that her son¡¯s never met anyone he¡¯s loved enough to¡­ well, love, and that when he finally finds that person, it might not even be a woman?¡± He takes a breath, ¡°If he finds that person.¡± He amends. After a moment, he looks up, slightly embarrassed at his outburst. Sophie, however, doesn¡¯t seem fazed.


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you have a twin sister?¡± She asks.


    ¡°Aromantic and asexual. Mum¡¯s not getting any grandkids there.¡± Arlo replies. Sophie nods and gives a small ¡®ah¡¯ in understanding.


    ¡°Well, hey, this just means that one of you is going to have to get a pet.¡± Arlo laughs,


    ¡°That¡¯s not a bad idea, Soph, any recommendations?¡±


    ¡°You seem like a cat kinda guy.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m allergic.¡±


    ¡°Coward.¡± She grins at him and puts her bike helmet on, ¡°I¡¯ll see you tomorrow, Maxwell.¡±


    ¡°See you tomorrow. Good luck with the in-laws!¡± Arlo¡¯s smiling long after she¡¯s gone, whilst he¡¯s getting himself ready to leave. It was nice to have a new friend he could be honest with. He had spent so much time lying about his sexuality and his life to everybody that, when he moved away, he swore he would do his best not to carry on the same way. Cara knew, of course, and his dad suspected he was some kind of queer by the fact he caught Arlo hugging another boy on their doorstep, and when asked about it, Arlo turned all shades of red and almost had a panic attack, but this was the first time he had ever purposefully come out to anybody, and it felt better than he had expected.


    Still in the highest of spirits, Arlo leaves the precinct and calls a taxi. The drive back to his flat is dark, drizzly and uneventful. The cabbie¡¯s playing what sounds like an 80s hits playlist on the lowest possible volume which is driving Arlo insane. He can just about make out the familiar hook of ¡®Video Killed The Radio Star¡¯ but can¡¯t hear enough to know how far through the song is. The cabbie makes some idle conversation about the weather, as expected, and Arlo gives some half-baked, polite reply. They then sit in silence for the rest of the journey.


    When they pull up outside Arlo¡¯s block of flats, he wastes no time in jumping out of the cab, unlocking the front door and starting the trek up the four flights of stairs to his floor. Moving out and starting a new job at twenty-four meant living cheaply, and living cheaply meant perpetually broken lifts and tiny flats on fourth floors. It was a less-than-ideal arrangement, but now it was home. Arlo was no stranger to decorating either - he had changed everything he reasonably could to shades of gunmetal silver and blue, a shift that had turned a once old and dingy looking apartment into a classy and mature home base for a modern detective. It made him feel like he should produce a bucket of ice from under the kitchen counter and pour himself a glass of whiskey, which would¡¯ve been much less suave than he was imagining considering all his glasses were colourful and mis-matched due to them being one of the many things Arlo supplied his flat with from a nearby charity shop.


    He drops his keys on the coffee table and falls into the sofa, face first. The thought of falling asleep right there occurs to him, but as he considers it, his stomach lets out an almighty growl and he groans into the sofa cushion. Reluctantly, he makes his way over to the fridge and opens it, flinching at the bright light that attacks his eyes. Nothing but milk and the day-before-yesterday¡¯s take-out. He sniffs the box of leftover chicken and immediately recoils in disgust. Apparently an extremely second-hand fridge doesn''t always, well, refrigerate. He tosses the chicken and reluctantly sniffs the milk. Still okay, thank god. Cereal for dinner it is.


    Arlo¡¯s mind wanders as he pours the milk into a bowl of mini chocolate-chip Weetabix. He looks around at his new home and wonders if it¡¯ll ever feel less cold and lonely than it does right now. Thinking back to his conversation with Sophie, he exhales and scratches the back of his hair. Truth be told, his love life had been a bit of a disaster. He had grown up around friends and classmates that had loved to talk about relationships; in primary school they¡¯d have play-dates and get married under the monkeybars, in secondary school they would giggle about who was sleeping with who, nervously ask each other out at the prom and get caught making out in music rooms, hell, in university, two of his classmates were already married. Arlo had had a few crushes, but pursuing them felt like too much, too fast. He simply couldn¡¯t fathom the idea of being that intimate with a stranger, or even a classmate, and celebrity crushes were a completely foreign concept to him. He knew he wanted a big, sweeping love story, he could fantasise about a crush for days, but he figured he probably just wouldn¡¯t be able to handle the pressure of one. Every time he thought about the closeness he was supposed to have with a partner, he got a lump in his throat and he began to panic. Once, when he was eighteen, he thought that perhaps he could feel that way about his best friend, and so they went on a date, a horribly silent, uncomfortable, tense date that ended with an awkward hug on a doorstep. That same night, after crying for what felt like forever, Arlo researched and researched until, at 6am the following morning, he anxiously knocked on his sister¡¯s door and confided in her that he was demipansexual. After the initial shock of being awoken at such an ungodly hour, she embraced and comforted him for a while, before coming out about her own sexual identity, and they spent the rest of the day in that room talking about anything and everything. If one good thing came from losing his best friend that night, it was that he finally bonded with his sister in a way they had never managed before, which, in his mind, was a worthwhile trade-off.


    Arlo settles on the sofa with his bowl of cereal, kicks his feet up to rest on the edge on the coffee table, and grabs the tv remote. Flicking through channels, he settles on a food network showing reruns of Kitchen Nightmares and sinks into the sofa cushions, officially done for the day.


    Empty bowl by his side and one foot on the ground, Arlo begins to snore lightly. His capacity to stay conscious when watching tv on the sofa was shockingly inadequate, Cara always used to beat him with pillows until he¡¯d wake up whenever he dozed off during her favourite movies. Typically, he was impossible to rouse, ¡°sleeps like the dead¡± his father used to say, but this time something woke him very abruptly. His phone was vibrating on the kitchen counter, the sound echoing around the walls. He looks at the clock on the wall, drowsy and confused. Who on earth would be calling him this late at night? He walks over to his phone buzzing along the counter and peers at the screen.


    [UNAVAILABLE]


    Curious, Arlo hesitates for a second, then picks up the phone and presses the round, green button.


    ¡°Hello?¡± He says, cautiously. The person on the other end of the phone makes a surprised sort of sound and takes a moment to respond.


    ¡°Oh, uh, hi there. I was told this number was for a police precinct, is that right?¡± Arlo¡¯s hit with a wave of realisation as he recognises the lilting Irish accent on the other end of the phone. He didn¡¯t really think he¡¯d call. He meant to write down the precinct¡¯s number, it was too late before he realised he¡¯d written his own instead. The nerves had gotten the better of him on his very first case and he had made an extremely embarrassing mistake.


    ¡°Eli?¡± There was hesitation on the line.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Detective Maxwell.¡± Arlo was trying to sound professional, but he had his head in his hands and was practically melting from the heat radiating from his face. ¡®Embarrassing¡¯ may have been an understatement.


    ¡°Oh, Detective!¡± Eli sounded happy to hear that it was Arlo - scratch that - Eli sounded absolutely delighted to hear that it was Arlo on the other end of the phone. ¡°How are you?¡± Arlo furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.


    ¡°How am I?¡± He asked, his head swimming with disbelief and impatience, ¡°Eli, why are you calling this number this late? If you have more information about the robbery you can-¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s not that.¡±


    ¡°Then what is it?¡± Silence. ¡°Elijah?¡±


    ¡°I seem to be, um, lost.¡± Arlo blinks, waiting for more of an explanation. He hears Eli exhale and shuffle around and wonders if he might be drunk or high. ¡°Look, I was¡­ walking around, and I got lost. I was hoping that the precinct could send a car to come pick me up or something. You know, track the telephone box with their super duper technology? Pick me up via helicopter? Something a little action-movie-esque like that?¡± A certain tone in Eli¡¯s voice tempts a smile out of Arlo that he manages to suppress.


    ¡°Just find a street sign and call a taxi, Elijah, calling me this late is so unprofessional.¡±


    ¡°Hey, you¡¯re the one who gave me your number. Besides, I can¡¯t call a taxi, I have no money and no phone.¡± What kind of person these days walks around at night with no money and no phone? The suspicions about this man just kept piling up in Arlo¡¯s head. There was something, he could feel it. He opens his eyes and sighs, he¡¯s just had a very, very stupid idea.


    ¡°Stay on the phone. I¡¯m coming to get you.¡±


    ?


    Elijah was sitting on the pavement on the outside of the telephone box waiting for about forty minutes before Detective Maxwell arrived to get him. He had had to try and explain everything he could see; street signs, buildings, trees, whatever, just so the detective knew where he might¡¯ve been. Luckily it was a fairly small town, and both of them were currently in the residential area, but it was still a bit of a game of hide-and-seek. Elijah begins to hear some fast-paced, anxious footsteps echoing against the rows of houses and quickly scrambles to his feet, straightening his shirt. Maxwell¡¯s silhouette appears from around a corner and he can¡¯t stop the small smile that spreads across his face. The street lights are illuminating him, giving him an ethereal aura of light that entrances Elijah, and he stares, unapologetically. Amidst his enchantment, though, he can¡¯t help but notice the detective looks different. Less shy, more irritated. Still anxious, but now also conflicted. Not on high-alert, just tired, as if he¡¯d just woken up. He was no longer in his police uniform, instead he wore a grey t-shirt, blue jeans and beat-up trainers, nothing special, and yet, to Elijah he was stunning.


    ¡°Hi.¡± His charming British accent made Elijah¡¯s heart do a somersault.


    ¡°You found me.¡± A grin spreads across the smitten Irish-man¡¯s face that remains unreflected on the detective. Maxwell puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs his shoulders, rocking on his feet.


    ¡°Come on then, we should get you somewhere safer.¡±


    ¡°Lead the way, Detective Maxwell.¡± Elijah¡¯s ever-enthusiastic mood gave the detective pause.


    ¡°Just¡­ call me Arlo.¡± He spins around on his heel and begins walking back the way he came before he can see the look on Elijah¡¯s face. Under his breath, he mutters, ¡°This shit¡¯s about to be so incredibly off-the-record anyway.¡± He hears Elijah¡¯s footsteps behind him quicken to match his pace, and his anxiety spikes momentarily when he falls in step beside him.


    ¡°Can I ask where we¡¯re going, Arlo?¡± He could feel Elijah¡¯s eyes boring into the side of his head. Arlo hesitates, then makes a small throat-clearing type sound and lifts his head.


    ¡°My place.¡±

 CHAPTER 3

    The walk back to Arlo¡¯s flat is awkward and wet. The light summer drizzle that had started earlier in the evening had turned into a full-blown rainstorm that had soaked the boys through. Elijah laments the fact that he doesn¡¯t have a jumper or jacket to offer the shivering, underdressed detective beside him, instead, he offers the warmth of friendly banter which, suffice to say, is not received particularly well. For the entire duration of the walk, Arlo was struggling with what he was doing; meeting with and taking home a witness in an ongoing case was bad enough - not to mention it was his first case and he was being highly monitored at all times - but to also only be doing so because of the tiniest of gut feelings about him was borderline insane. After about fifteen minutes of zero reciprocation, Elijah gives up his witty attempts at friendship and walks quietly the rest of the way.


    Approaching the block of flats, Arlo breaks the silence, ¡°This is my building. I¡¯m afraid I live on the fourth floor and the lift isn¡¯t working, so I hope you¡¯re prepared for some exercise.¡± Elijah groans and chuckles.


    ¡°I just swore off exercise forever after my long-ass run today.¡±


    ¡°You run?¡± It was the first time Arlo had looked at him since he found him and it made Elijah¡¯s ears blush. Thank god for long hair and the cover of night.


    ¡°Sometimes.¡± He stutters a little, and he can almost swear he sees Arlo crack a tiny smile before he looks away again.


    Climbing the four flights of stairs is largely uneventful, apart from Elijah tripping, almost falling flat on his face, and Arlo trying and failing at coving up a laugh. They pass a twenty-something year old girl on the second floor rifling through her bag to find her flat keys, holding a phone between her ear and shoulder. Elijah thinks he overhears something notable, but Arlo¡¯s walking too fast for him to slow down and process. They finally reach the fourth floor and Arlo pulls a key out of his pocket to unlock flat 4C. Watching the detective walk in and drop his keys on the coffee table, Elijah stands in the doorway, still dripping wet.


    ¡°You can come in.¡± Arlo says over his shoulder, sensing Elijah¡¯s hesitation.


    ¡°Um, your floor-¡±


    ¡°Will dry. Just avoid the rug. I¡¯ll find you a towel or something.¡± Arlo disappears into the only other room in the flat - the bedroom, Elijah supposes - and reemerges with a large grey towel. ¡°Here.¡± He says, passing the towel to Elijah who takes it readily.


    ¡°Thanks.¡± Elijah replies, scrunching the ends of his hair into the towel.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to go change, I¡¯ll see if I have anything you can wear while your clothes dry. Make yourself at home.¡± As Arlo disappears back into his bedroom, Elijah takes the opportunity to look around the small space he had been brought back to.


    The shades of grey and blue in the room did well to hide the small breaks in the facade, but, looking closer, Elijah could make out the bright colours of the Monopoly and Operation boxes hidden behind a half-closed cabinet door, and the magical glint of the small glass dragon statuettes pushed too far back on the very top shelf of the bookcase, which also hid a pristine copy of Alice¡¯s Adventures in Wonderland amongst the countless dark and gritty crime novels. Elijah runs his hand along the back of the old leather sofa but doesn¡¯t dare sit down. His jeans felt three times heavier than usual because of the waterlogging, and he was sure that Arlo wouldn¡¯t appreciate a soggy settee. He moves to the kitchen, making note of the exact type of coffee Arlo drinks, and stares at the refrigerator. There¡¯s a single item stuck to the front of it with a touristy London skyline magnet, and it makes Elijah¡¯s heart ache. A photograph of four people, two adults and two children, huddled together in front of the London Eye. They¡¯re all dressed in brightly coloured raincoats and their red faces are smiling and joyful despite the thunderstorm that¡¯s clearly taking place. A beautiful family moment in the midst of what looked like a shitty day, just like a diamond in the rough. The ache in his chest refuses to shift. Elijah frowns and tries to think back to the last time he had a family photo on the fridge.


    It was Christmas of 2011 and he had just finished helping his mother decorate their tree. Father had just put the angel on top when he called for everyone to take a photo around it. Mother set up the camera on a timer and kept running back and forth, checking the photos were coming out alright. ¡°This one¡¯s too blurry. This one¡¯s too high up. Luke, for Pete¡¯s sake, you blinked. Keep your children under control, Michael!¡± On and on it went, it felt like the twelve days of Christmas were spent solely in front of that camera. Eventually, though, she got a photo she was happy with, and it was printed and put on the fridge right between the electric bill and the weekly shopping list. Elijah spent a lot of time staring at that photo that night. His grandfather looked half asleep and his brother still blinked in the end, but it brought him some comfort, even if it was a lie. The photo didn¡¯t stay on the fridge for long, it mustn''t have even been twenty-four hours, now it burned a hole in Elijah¡¯s pocket, where it hasn¡¯t been unfolded, or even glanced at, for twelve years.


    Elijah¡¯s train of thought is abruptly interrupted by Arlo once again reentering the room, this time dressed in black sweatpants and a burgundy Sherlock Holmes t-shirt, barefoot and hair still damp. They lock eyes momentarily before Arlo averts his gaze anxiously, scratching the back of his hair in his usual nervous manner.


    ¡°I¡¯ve left some old clothes in the bathroom, you can go get changed and hang your wet clothes up on the shower rail to dry.¡± Arlo says, motioning toward the bedroom. Elijah smiles warmly, finding the other¡¯s sheepish disposition quite charming, and obediently walks past him into the bedroom. He was surprised to discover that this room mirrored the last. He had hoped that where Arlo slept would be a more personal reflection of his true self, but all Elijah saw was more grey, more blue, and more facades. Scanning the room for the door to the en-suite bathroom, he notices the detective¡¯s badge and gun discarded on top of the dresser. It was nice to know that he wasn¡¯t seen as that much of a threat since Arlo didn¡¯t have his firearm glued to his hip. Although, some may have called that poor character judgement.


    There was a small pile of neatly folded clothes on the side of the bathtub; some grey jogging bottoms and a lilac t-shirt with a rather faded retro gaming pattern. Laid on top of the pile were also a fresh pair of black socks that Elijah was amused to find had tiny images of bunnies printed on the sides. Quickly changing into the dry clothes, he finally looks in the mirror and examines the dripping, scruffy reflection that looks back at him. His brunette hair had gotten darker due to the moisture, his greys now practically invisible, and the wavy, curly locks he had woken up with were now straight and tangled. He twisted his hair between his hands and rung out as much of the residual water as he could into the sink. He runs his fingers through his hair, combing the tangles free to the best of his ability, and sighs at his reflection. Deciding that the image isn¡¯t going to get any neater, he leaves his wet clothes hung on the shower curtain rail, and exits the bathroom.


    Arlo¡¯s boiling the kettle when Elijah reemerges. He looks over his shoulder at the now-dry stranger in his living room and briefly considers admitting that this was all a huge mistake and kicking him back out onto the street. He¡¯d be lying if he said he hadn¡¯t been thinking of every possible way this scenario could backfire from the moment he invited Elijah in, but he was always a curious sort, and the mystery surrounding one Mr Elijah Asher was just too tempting to discard so carefreely when he had been presented such a perfect opportunity to potentially solve it. Arlo catches himself staring a little too long and quickly turns his head back to the kettle.


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°Coffee?¡± He asks, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet above his head.


    ¡°Got any tea?¡± The smile plastered on Elijah¡¯s face whenever he was around Arlo was evident in his voice, every word sounded so pleasant and comfortable, as if they had been having chats over tea and coffee their whole lives. It made Arlo feel a mix of emotions he couldn¡¯t seem to untangle and analyse, so he ignored it.


    ¡°No, sorry, I don¡¯t drink it.¡±


    ¡°How very un-British of you, an incredible disappointment, truly.¡± Elijah closes his eyes and pulls a face in mock disgust which coaxes a small smile out of Arlo. Opening his eyes, he sees Arlo still looking at him somewhat expectantly, and mirrors his smile, ¡°I¡¯ve never had coffee.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve never had coffee?¡± Arlo splutters in response, clearly taken aback. Once again turning back to the kettle, he sets to work filling both of the mugs with coffee grounds and milk. ¡°There are a lot of odd things about you Elijah Asher, but that takes the cake by far.¡±


    ¡°Eli.¡± The tone of Elijah¡¯s voice has shifted so quickly that it sends a shiver down Arlo¡¯s spine. ¡°Just Eli, please, Arlo.¡± Hearing Elijah use his first name for the second time that night makes Arlo hesitate before taking a deep breath and carrying the two mugs over to the coffee table. He looks at Elijah¡¯s face and instantly he¡¯s hit with a pang of regret. His usual optimistic demeanour seemed to have been replaced with one much more exhausted and sombre. It was the same expression Arlo had seen flash across Elijah¡¯s face in the tea shop, only now it lasted longer than just a fleeting moment.


    ¡°I apologise, I¡¯ll do my best to remember.¡± They exchange small, sad smiles and Arlo scratches the back of his hair. ¡°Come, sit.¡±


    As Elijah joins him on the sofa and cradles his mug in both his hands, periodically bringing it to his lips and gently blowing the steam away, the pounding in Arlo¡¯s chest and that familiar churn of anxiety in his stomach starts to ease. He finds himself examining Elijah in excruciating detail, mentally cataloguing every aspect of the mysterious stranger he had brought home. He had, of course, already done this to an extent when they had met for the first time at the tea shop, but that was Arlo¡¯s job, that was merely observing a witness. This? This was curious, intimate, like analysing a particularly compelling photograph of a legendary beast in the rural outskirts of northern Scandinavia. Needless to say, Arlo was more than a little captivated by Elijah. Needless to say, it was not unreciprocated. Arlo¡¯s thought process, however, is interrupted by a sudden spluttering from across the sofa where Elijah was grimacing and holding his tongue between his teeth, clearly disgusted at the taste of the liquid in his cup. Arlo presses his lips together and the corners twitch up briefly as he stifles his laugh.


    ¡°It¡¯s, um, interesting.¡± Elijah says as he sets his mug back down onto the coffee table.


    ¡°And now the truth?¡± Arlo¡¯s still examining Elijah¡¯s face, amused. Elijah grins sheepishly.


    ¡°I would rather drink puddle water.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Arlo cocks his head toward one of the windows, ¡°it is raining.¡± They share a bemused grin for a mere second before Arlo hurriedly averts his gaze and busies himself with his mug of coffee.


    Breaching the topic of who on earth Eli even was was a more difficult task than Arlo had first assumed; the possible outcomes were building up in his mind and the majority of them weren¡¯t great. As the anxiety pounded in his ears, he could hear Eli babbling on about something. Maybe tea? He didn¡¯t know, he wasn¡¯t listening. Finally, he spoke,


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you have a phone?¡± Elijah stops, mid-sentence, and affixes Arlo with a slightly confused stare. A few awkward seconds go by and there¡¯s no response. If there was no other outcome to this conversation, Arlo at least now knew how to finally shut Eli up. He swallows the lump in his throat and continues, ¡°Why don¡¯t you have a wallet, or any money?¡± By this point, Eli isn¡¯t even staring at Arlo anymore, it¡¯s almost as if there was a big hole in his head and he¡¯s staring right through him. A few more seconds go by, ¡°Elijah?¡±


    ¡°Eli.¡± His sudden growl takes Arlo by surprise. Everything in him says to back off, but instead, he sits straight and holds Eli¡¯s now-steely glare.


    ¡°That. What¡¯s that about?¡± More silence. Arlo takes a deep breath and rethinks his approach. Softer, he says, ¡°You are in my house because I¡¯m guessing you had nowhere else to go. I¡¯m risking my career and my reputation just bringing you back here, let alone having coffee with you. I think I deserve some kind of answer.¡± The expression on Eli¡¯s face softens.  Arlo can immediately pinpoint a certain sadness in his eyes and he swears he can see him start to tear up. Eli adjusts his posture and finally looks away, into his lap.


    ¡°My family weren¡¯t very nice people.¡± He¡¯s quiet, quieter than Arlo had ever heard him before. It was almost terrifying.


    ¡°Weren¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°Weren¡¯t.¡± Eli nods slowly before continuing, ¡°I haven¡¯t seen any of them since I was twelve.¡± Arlo blinks slowly and tries to mask the immense feeling of dread pooling in his chest.


    ¡°So you¡¯ve been alone since-¡±


    ¡°Since I was a kid, yes.¡±


    ¡°And you don¡¯t like your name because¡­ it reminds you of them?¡± A whisper of a smirk appears on Eli¡¯s face, but that, still, was shrouded in despair.


    ¡°Are you religious?¡±


    ¡°I, uh-¡± Arlo stutters, clearly taken aback by the seemingly left-field question, ¡°-I was raised Christian I guess, but we only ever went to church once a year, and I¡¯m pretty sure that was just because my dad wanted the free food at Christmas mass, and-¡± Arlo takes a breath and feels a quiet sense of relief as he hears a slight chuckle from across the sofa. He smiles sheepishly and recomposes himself. ¡°No. I¡¯m not really religious. Not any more.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Eli starts, the brief lightheartedness fizzling away and being replaced once again with melancholy, ¡°my family were extremely Catholic; Church every morning, bible study before bed, Jesus on pretty much every wall in the house, you get it.¡± Arlo gives a small nod in acknowledgement and Eli continues, ¡°One day, at Sunday school, we learnt about marriage and how love only exists between a man and a woman, blah blah blah, all of the standard stuff you desperately need to know at seven years old, of course.¡± Eli rolls his eyes, ¡°That same lesson got drilled into us again and again for years, and I never understood it. Why on earth did I have to marry a girl when boys were just so much prettier?¡±


    At that sudden declaration, Arlo realises he¡¯s staring at the ends of Eli¡¯s damp hair, watching them slowly curl, and hastily averts his attention back to his coffee mug, desperately pretending there was no subtle flush upon his face.


    ¡°So that¡¯s exactly what I asked my priest.¡± Arlo halts, mid sip, and his eyes shoot back up to Eli¡¯s in horror.


    ¡°You told your priest you were gay?¡± Eli¡¯s sad smile is all the confirmation Arlo needs.


    ¡°I was only nine. He called my father right there and then. I didn¡¯t understand why it was such a big deal.¡± Arlo hesitates, terrified to ask the question bubbling in his mind as he was certain he already knew the answer.


    ¡°What did your father do?¡± The pain in Eli¡¯s eyes was too much to bear. The question felt damning coming out of his lips and the regret welled up in his chest. Eli¡¯s eyes shine with the threat of tears as he attempts to formulate an answer.


    ¡°When I got home that afternoon he¡­¡± Eli trails off as he chokes back a lump in his throat and then straightens his back. ¡°He was a really violent alcoholic, let¡¯s put it that way. My brother stopped speaking to me and my mother decided that I¡¯d be better locked away in the attic so that I didn¡¯t infect the whole family with the plague of homosexuality.¡± Eli scoffs amusedly through his tears that were now trailing down his face. Arlo couldn¡¯t help but admire his relentless ability to put even the tiniest of witty spins on the darkest of conversations.


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you play along to save yourself the pain? Pretend you were ¡°cured¡± and play straight until you could leave?¡±


    Eli¡¯s eyes finally met Arlo¡¯s once again. ¡°Why should I have to?¡±


    The question hung in the air leaving a piercing silence between the two for what felt like an eternity. Eli was the first to break it. ¡°Anyway¡­ when I turned twelve I overheard my parents planning to send me away somewhere for conversion therapy. I ran away a few days later.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ so sorry.¡± Arlo felt like his heart and stomach had hit the floor. Suddenly he wasn¡¯t so suspicious of this poor man sitting in front of him.


    All he felt was heartbroken.

 CHAPTER 4

    Arlo¡¯s eyes grow heavier as he half-heartedly washes the coffee mugs in the sink. It was 1:03 in the morning, and the stranger on his sofa was becoming more of an acquaintance - perhaps even a friend - by the minute. He was plagued with the anxiety ridden thoughts swirling in his brain of what might happen to his badge if his captain found out what had happened: bonding with a witness to an active crime and drinking coffee with them into the early hours of the morning. You didn''t have to be a detective to know that didn''t sound good. Twisting the tap off, he turned to observe Eli, disbelief growing in his chest at what he was about to say.


    ¡°Did you want to stay here tonight?¡± Eli raises his eyebrows and smirks as Arlo quickly adds, ¡°I can make up the sofa for you.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, but I don''t want to impose on your space.¡± Standing up, Eli glances down at Arlo''s clothes he was still wearing, ¡°Let me just change back into my clothes and then I¡¯ll be out of your hair, they should''ve dried by now.¡±


    Arlo nods slowly and worriedly chews on his bottom lip as he watches Eli disappear back into the bedroom. Both of them were well aware that he had nowhere to go and no idea where he was; letting him stay would''ve been a bad idea, but this one definitely felt worse. Suddenly he springs to action rummaging through various kitchen drawers until he finds what he''s looking for - his old mobile phone. Praying it had any life left in its dilapidated shell, he pushes the power button and sighs a breath of relief when he sees the familiar Samsung logo pop up. Rummaging further through the drawer, he pulls out a matching charger and coils it up. Fully booted up, Arlo grasps the phone and is once again filled with relief at the sight of no passcode lock to bypass. His old SIM card was still inserted, so he quickly deletes any sensitive information and photos, and adds his current mobile number to the phone''s contacts just in time for Eli to exit the bedroom wearing his original clothes that were quite obviously still uncomfortably damp. Brows furrowed and head swimming, Arlo scans over this ludicrous plan one last time before holding the spare phone out toward Eli, definitively deciding this was the only correct decision. Eli eyes the smartphone being presented to him and gives Arlo a puzzled look.


    ¡°Take it. My phone number¡¯s on it and the contract¡¯s still being paid for.¡± Eli opens his mouth to protest, but Arlo hastily continues, ¡°You need some form of security if you¡¯re going to stay out there. Please, just take it.¡± Their eyes meet and Eli cracks a small smile as he reaches out to take the phone.


    ¡°I¡¯d be careful, detective, you¡¯re getting dangerously close to making me believe you actually like me.¡± A flicker of bemusement crosses Arlo¡¯s face, but only for a second.


    ¡°Goodnight, Eli.¡±


    ¡°Goodnight, Arlo.¡± Eli pauses halfway out the door and looks over his shoulder, shoots Arlo a warm smile and says, ¡°Thanks for the coffee.¡±


    ?


    Arlo jolts awake at the sound of his alarm blaring the same Arctic Monkeys song that irritates him every morning, mentally checking off another day of forgetting to change it. Eyes still squeezed shut, he pathetically waves his hand around, hoping to hit the snooze button on his phone, but instead almost flings a half-full glass of water to the ground. He huffs and reluctantly opens his eyes just enough to seek out the source of the racket, turn the volume all the way down, and turn back over, completely prepared to jeopardise his dream job for a five minute lay-in. If the alarm went off, that must mean it was 6am, which means he had an hour to get ready, call a cab, and ride it to work. The drive takes twenty minutes, ordering a cab might take ten, showering could easily be a five minute job, and the need for breakfast is a myth, ¡°So if I think about it, I could just go back to sleep for twenty-five minutes.¡± he muses to himself. Unfortunately though, ADHD-fueled mental maths is the perfect way to restart an unconscious brain, and Arlo¡¯s eyes spring back open, fully awake.


    As he groans at his groggy, bedraggled reflection in the bathroom mirror, pictures of last night flash in and out of his brain, and he can¡¯t help but wonder whether or not Eli had managed to find somewhere safe to sleep. His chest grows hot as anxiety gnaws at his stomach like a rat trying to escape a cage. ¡°He¡¯s survived alone every day for over a decade,¡± he thinks, affixing his reflection with a stern gaze, ¡°he¡¯s not your problem to fix.¡± A thousand ¡°what-if¡±s and one fully thought out worst case scenario later, Arlo finally manages to convince himself that Eli¡¯s probably still alive, but the anxious gnawing remains. Quieter, but still present.


    The drive to the precinct is just as uneventful as ever, and Arlo, relieved to be freed from the awkward shackles of small talk, practically jumps out of the cab before the wheels fully stop moving as it pulls up next to the precinct. As he has done every day since he moved to the village, he reminds himself he desperately needs to learn how to drive a car, bike, skateboard, anything. The usual 6:30am small talk with a complete stranger in a vehicle you can¡¯t inconspicuously stop, drop, and roll out of without the police getting called on you really wasn¡¯t going to cut it forever. Needless to say, the Arlo that woke up this morning was not quite the same Arlo that invited a stranger to stay the night last night.


    The precinct was alive with chaos on this particular morning, there was already a crowd of rowdy civilians around a few desks exhibiting various levels of distress. Something must¡¯ve happened last night that Arlo didn¡¯t know about. He scans the room until he finds a familiar flash of red hair and hastily makes his way over.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Arlo blurts out as soon as he knows he¡¯s within earshot. Sophie looks concerned and chews her bottom lip nervously - clearly commotions like this weren¡¯t all too common in this town.


    ¡°They found a body this morning at the bottom of the canal. Can¡¯t have been dead for more than 24 hours.¡± Arlo¡¯s heart sank. He knew that death would be part of the job, but it didn¡¯t make encountering his first any easier.


    ¡°Was it¡­? Did he¡­?¡± Unsure of how to finish the question he wanted to ask, Arlo stutters and trails off.


    ¡°Do it himself?¡± Sophie finishes.


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°They think so, they found rocks in his pockets. Smart man - he knew to make sure there was enough weight on him to stay anchored to the bottom.¡± Arlo¡¯s brows furrow, conflicted.


    ¡°Rocks in his pockets? That sounds more like a suicide than foul play to you?¡±


    ¡°That sounds more like foul play than suicide to you? How many crime shows do you watch?¡± Sophie asks, eyebrows raised. ¡°There hasn¡¯t been a murder here in decades. There¡¯s no way this is one.¡± She shakes her head definitively and begins to walk to the break room with Arlo swiftly in tow.


    As the mechanical whirr of the coffee machine fills the silence between the two detectives, Arlo continues to eye the desperate cluster of people between the half-open blinds, fiddling with a loose thread on his shirt. He had always had a phenomenal intuition - not to mention excellent deduction skills - and the simple fact was that the balance of probability that a man found with rocks stuffed into every fold of clothing at the bottom of a canal on a random Tuesday night had killed himself was arguably slim. On the other hand, he was new, and this town was - admittedly - a lot safer than his old one, so perhaps Sophie was right. Could it really be that unlikely for it to be murder? He knew he was way out of his depth even considering trying to weasel his way onto a case like this on his second day doing real detective work, but once his brain fixated, there was little anybody could do to get him to focus on anything else. Unluckily for Arlo, there was another brilliantly intuitive detective in the room with him, and she had already read his mind.


    ¡°Don¡¯t even think about it, it¡¯s Torres¡¯ case, the only murder in that mystery would end up being yours.¡± She says as she exits the break room with her freshly made coffee in hand.


    Arlo huffs, disappointed. ¡°Shit.¡±


    There was one upside to Arlo not being put on the canal case - it meant he didn¡¯t have to go on duty with Torres again, which, as he discovered very quickly, made the job one thousand times more enjoyable. Instead, he was paired with Sophie to go and investigate another robbery, albeit a significantly less dramatic one. Instead of robbers that looked like they got stoned and watched a bad heist movie before deciding to target the first establishment they came across, today it was a forty-something year old woman trying to shoplift alcohol from the local corner shop. Less threat and running, more gaslighting and verbal abuse. Such is life.


    After fighting a never-ending battle of words with said woman and the poor sod who¡¯s shop she decided to target, Arlo and Sophie finally leave the tiny convenience store. No words are exchanged once out of the store¡¯s range, but they could both sense the other¡¯s displeasure at how they had spent their day. Sophie pulls a carton of cigarettes and a lighter out of her back pocket, popping one in her mouth and sparking it up in one swift movement. She holds out the carton, offering Arlo one, and he politely declines, suppressing the grimace creeping onto his face. He had never understood the attraction to smoking, in fact, he had rendered himself so against the act that he swore he could feel the lung rot creeping into his own organs every time he walked past somebody with a smoke in their mouth. Of course, this was just Arlo¡¯s misplaced resentment and spite manifesting as a growing ball of anxiety whispering worst-case-scenarios in the forefront of his mind every time he got a noseful of secondhand smoke - this he knew himself - but he figured he had to be at least somewhat justified in being judgemental toward a pastime that results in death and disease. In comparison, jumping into a canal didn¡¯t seem so tragic.


    ¡°Arlo?¡± Sophie¡¯s voice jolts Arlo out of his spiral and he blinks, suddenly aware he hadn¡¯t been paying attention to where they were going. Sophie looks amused and says, ¡°You didn¡¯t hear a word of what I just said, did you?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ no, not really.¡± Arlo scratches the back of his hair and gives his partner an apologetic look, which is met with more amusement as she laughs and rolls her eyes.


    ¡°I said I¡¯ll let you give the report to the captain by yourself. I need to call my wife and, quite frankly, the solo credit wouldn¡¯t hurt you.¡± She pauses for a moment to take a drag of her cigarette, ¡°I¡¯m honestly surprised there haven¡¯t been any more calls yet today. The guy in the canal must¡¯ve freaked out all the other petty thieves and wannabe street racers in this town, they seem to be taking the day off.¡±


    ¡°Well, even criminals need mental health days. They¡¯re probably holed up in their collective clubhouse playing Scrabble.¡±


    ¡°Or they¡¯re out testing another precinct¡¯s patience.¡±


    ¡°Nah, they¡¯re definitely playing Scrabble.¡±


    Despite the detectives being out for almost three hours, the precinct was still bustling with chaos, and the crowds of people only seem to have gotten larger. Arlo and Sophie exchange concerned glances and turn to go their separate ways, Sophie to the breakroom to make her phone call, and Arlo to the captain¡¯s office to report back. Captain Huxley¡¯s gratuitous response to his recount of the day''s events almost made the subpar case worthwhile; thanks were offered and genuine smiles were shared, a luxury Arlo had never experienced before with any of his old bosses. Exiting the office, he feels a wave of relief from his persistent anxiety wash over him as he weaves his way to his desk to begin the monotonous slog of paperwork he had yet to do. He taps his login details into his keyboard and sighs as the computer fans whir increasingly louder, clearly displeased that he had the sheer audacity to cause micro-mechanical warfare by requesting the dusty machine do its job. Arlo sits and scrolls mindlessly through various news and media apps on his phone, waiting for the computer to stop displaying those infuriating spinning dots. The further he scrolls, the more the realisation hits him; he really did live in the middle of nowhere. There were no articles, tweets, or even forums about the death in the village, it was as if the town didn¡¯t exist. No one knew about them, no one cared. If a man dies in a nowhere-town that no one outside even knows about, did he ever really exist? The spiral Arlo was about to enter was abruptly interrupted by a text notification popping up, covering the topmost section of the article he was reading. His breath hitches as he clicks on the notification, both intrigued and terrified at the anticipation of seeing an unprompted message from¡­ Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    ¡­Cara.


    He exhales in relief - or perhaps disappointment, he couldn¡¯t tell - and reads the message.


    hey, i heard there was some sort of emergency down where you are. a guy jumped into a river or something? are you okay?


    ¡°How the¡­?¡± Puzzled, Arlo quickly taps in his reply and hits send.


    How on EARTH did you hear about that? There¡¯s no media coverage on it.


    Response bubbles appear immediately, followed by a sharp buzz.


    arlo i literally own the internet, i have connections everywhere


    You definitely don¡¯t own the internet.


    let me dream, my job is so dull


    You¡¯re literally rich.


    doesn¡¯t mean it isn¡¯t DULL


    Quit and become a rodeo clown?


    genuinely tempting


    so?


    what happened??


    Are you really that bored that you want me to break police confidentiality?


    yes


    ¡­


    Okay so-


    Arlo was never one to break rules or risk jobs, but lately he felt just a tad rebellious. Plus, if there was one person that could keep confidential information safe, it was Cara, she didn¡¯t work in cybersecurity for one of the biggest digital corporations for nothing. Mainly the money.


    After Arlo finishes gossiping to Cara about the latest in the precinct - wherein he took extra special care in shielding his phone screen from the other detectives for fear they¡¯d find out about him disclosing private information to a nosy twin sister - he places his phone back in his pocket and combs his fingers through his hair, exhausted with the constant noise around him. He looks at the clock and sighs. It was just after one, as was confirmed by his stomach growling, willing him to take his lunch hour. Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, he swings it over his shoulder and pushes his way back through the crowds to exit the grounds. His mind cycles through various nearby cafes and fast food places, before he settles on deciding to eat as he usually did, opting for the cheapest meal deal the nearest corner shop had. Finding a nearby bench, he contemplates sitting for a few seconds before deciding against sinking into the cold metal bars. He continues meandering aimlessly down the street as he tears open his sandwich, discarding the packaging in the bin as he strolls past. One upside to moving to this nowhere-town were the rare views you would only catch if you dared to look up from your feet once in a while. To Arlo, the yellowy green grass and knotty trees of the parks that pop up on every other street were a welcome and soothing sight from the big city environment he hailed from. Growing up, the only parks he was able to visit were multi-storey and filled to capacity with cars. He pauses for a mere moment to take in the sound and smell of the breeze rustling through the leaves, he takes a deep breath and could swear he feels the world halt around him. His eyes move to the murky - yet still strangely beautiful - water he can hear trickling through the canal.


    The canal.


    Arlo checks his watch. He still has a good 45 minutes left of his lunch break, and a morbid curiosity he was done suppressing. Shovelling the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, he sets off following the canal, refocused. If he couldn¡¯t get himself on the alleged suicide case, he may as well investigate himself.


    ?


    Elijah¡¯s eyelids gently flutter open. The cold air stings his cheeks and the last of the morning dew kisses his fingertips as they brush the tips of the yellowy-green grass that reach up to him from below his park bench hotel. Room jumping in an actual hotel wasn¡¯t exactly on the cards last night since this tiny town only had one, and from slightly sketchy past experiences he knew that staying in the same hotel two nights in a row was far too risky for his liking. After leaving Arlo¡¯s flat, Eli - happy yet half-asleep - meandered to the nearest expanse of green he could find and settled down for the night, a strange warmth of satisfaction pooling in his chest, replacing the persistent confliction he was so used to. It was there he collapsed onto the first bench he saw and slept peacefully under the stars. He runs a hand through his hair, neatening the blowout the nighttime breeze had inadvertently given him.


    ¡°Eight thirty-ish.¡± He guesses, squinting at the sun peeking out from behind the clouds. The ability to tell the time of day by the angle of the sun was a skill Eli prided himself on learning at a young age, a necessity for a life lived with no wristwatch or kitchen clock. Of course, despite his confidence, he was entirely wrong. It was just past noon.


    Swinging his legs off of the bench, he reaches down to release the shoes he had tied to the metal leg by their scruffy laces and pulls them on, pausing as he notices the same little bunny motif on his ankle that had delighted him last night when he had found them placed atop the pile of dry clothes Arlo had left for him to change into. He hoped the detective wouldn¡¯t miss them too much. Eli scans his surroundings, taking in what he couldn¡¯t see hours prior under the darkness of night. The pungent odour of cigarette smoke from the ashtray-topped trash can permeates his nostrils as he scrunches his nose in annoyance. ¡°Smells like dad¡± he thinks to himself, quickly pushing the memory aside and stemming the irritation. He continues to scan the area until his gaze falls upon his first task for the day; a small unbranded corner shop. Sleeping in mildly damp denim will give a person that signature eau de mildew smell, and, if given the choice, he probably would¡¯ve preferred reeking of the ashes smudged into the tray beside him.


    Eli pushes on the flaky green door frame of the shop and a sad robotic whine sounds from a hidden electronic bell in dire need of a battery replacement. He makes his way to the back of the aisles, maintaining his usual air of confidence and nonchalance as if he were a regular customer, shopping for his daily pint of milk and scratchcard. He peers over the shelves towards the cashier, taking note of whether or not they were paying attention well enough to spot or care about a small case of shoplifting. Thankfully, the poor sod who got called into work at the asscrack of dawn whilst clearly too hungover to function was currently staring - glassy-eyed and mentally spent - at a particularly uninteresting pop-up stand of off-brand sellotape. He wasn¡¯t going to be an issue.


    Elijah quickly locates the essentials aisle and scans the displays for the deodorant section. He hastily grabs the first aerosol can he sees and, flicking the cap off, sprays himself and his clothes until the damp smell fades. He takes a tentative sniff of his shirt and the aroma of an entire flower garden floods his senses. Looking down, he reads the words Bright Bouquet surrounded by a collage of pink flora and snorts in amusement, surprised and delighted. He places the can back on the shelf and bounces back down the aisle, quite literally feeling fresh as a daisy. Task one complete, on to task two; being homeless didn¡¯t afford you many opportunities to use toothpaste. Eli usually got by exploiting the access to free toiletries on his hotel adventures, or he¡¯d purchase those awful-tasting chewable toothbrushes from decrepit vending machines in fuel station bathrooms with what little change he could scrounge up. Generally speaking, he kept up decently well with his personal hygiene for someone with no home base, but sometimes, desperate times called for desperate measures. Approaching the counter, Eli fixes his hair and clears his throat, gaining the attention of the cashier. Their glassy eyes scrunch closed, the overwhelming scent of Eli¡¯s newly donned scent wreaking havoc on the pain their hangover was clearly already causing them.


    ¡°Long night?¡± Eli asks sympathetically, with a charming smile. There¡¯s a small grunt in response, which he assumes means ¡®yes¡¯. ¡°I¡¯m terribly sorry to bother, but I don¡¯t suppose you could give me some directions to the town centre?¡± Still flashing that charming smile, Eli leans on the counter with one arm, while the other fishes around the small display of chewing gum attached to the front of the desk. He smoothly slides a pack of spearmint up his sleeve unbeknownst to the cashier, who¡¯s now slogging through some incredibly vague and unhelpful directions with all the enthusiasm of a dull rock.


    Eli exits the store with a leap in his step as he pops a piece of gum into his mouth, chewing as the icy coolness traverses his veins and shocks his synapses fully awake. As he goes to stuff the packet down into his jeans pocket, his hand comes into contact with something else instead. He pulls out the phone Arlo gifted him the previous night and the screen lights up, displaying a blinding array of colourful bubbles behind the white text displaying the time, 12:14. Eli furrows his eyebrows at the screen, looks up at the sun, and back down to the screen again.


    ¡°Well, I fucked that one right up.¡±


    ?


    It¡¯s as if the atmosphere shifts somehow when Arlo turns the corner into the park. Remnants of crime scene tape were still attached to the trees, fluttering in the breeze as if urgent to escape and fly away.


    ¡°If this were a murder,¡± Arlo thought, ¡°they would have found something. Anything. Detectives would still be here.¡± Could it really just be a suicide after all? Was he in over his head trying to make up some conspiracy just to play the amazingly smart detective, the only one who could crack the case? It was beginning to look like it to Arlo. They must have pulled the body out of the canal, whisked him away, and evacuated the scene all in under an hour and a half. Surprisingly, save from the occasional bike rider, the park was completely empty - everyone and their mothers must¡¯ve beelined for the precinct once the news spread. Eyes glued to the canal, Arlo¡¯s lip threatens to quiver as an empty pit begins to form in his stomach.


    A man died here.


    He keeps repeating the same sentence in his head, over and over.


    A man took his own life right here.


    It still didn¡¯t feel quite right. They didn¡¯t teach you how to manage this feeling in the academy, they didn¡¯t prepare you for it. Or was he just being oversensitive? Mum always did say he was oversensitive. Arlo¡¯s breathing quickens and he turns on his heel so his back is facing the canal. ¡°Now is not the time to have a panic attack, Arlo, breathe.¡± He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, willing his heart to stop racing. Movies and TV shows can¡¯t convey the sheer density of the atmosphere of pure tragedy that hangs low over a location where someone¡¯s recently passed. If they could, Arlo was sure cinema would be an artform only sampled by the self-loathing and masochistic. ¡°Focus on the sounds, Arlo, what can you hear?¡± As much as he liked to believe she didn¡¯t do anything that truly helped him, Arlo¡¯s childhood therapist sure had a one-way fast track into his subconscious.


    He closes his eyes and focuses. Sounds of nature flood his ears and he mentally separates and analyses each one, breathing slower and slower as he organises the weather from the wildlife. His soundscape of nature, however, is abruptly interrupted and his eyes shoot open as his phone begins buzzing erratically. Three short buzzes, a pause, and then the familiar vibration of a phone call. With that many texts in a row and a call, it could only be Cara. Arlo whips his phone out and hits the green ¡®answer¡¯ button all within one swift second.


    ¡°Hey, Cara. I¡¯m in the middle of something right now, is this important?¡±


    No response.


    ¡°Cara? Hello?¡± Arlo removes the phone from the side of his face and checks the call is still active. As the display lights back up, confirming the call, his eyes travel up the screen to the caller ID and his breath hitches. He brings the phone back to his ear, ¡°...Eli?¡±


    ¡°Hi, detective.¡± Arlo couldn¡¯t help but hear the smile in Eli¡¯s voice. ¡°Is this a bad time?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± The speed and certainty of his own response confused him, wasn¡¯t it a bad time? He lay a hand on his chest to find his heart rate returned to its normal steadiness. ¡°What do you need?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll never believe it, detective-¡±


    ¡°Arlo.¡± Eli chuckles under his breath at the speed of Arlo¡¯s interjection.


    ¡°-Arlo,¡± He corrects, ¡°but I think I¡¯m lost again.¡± he finishes sheepishly. Arlo laughs, an innocent, genuine laugh, and sighs, smiling. The smile stays stuck to his face as he replies.


    ¡°Eli, I¡¯m standing at a crime scene right now, I can¡¯t come get you.¡±


    ¡°No, no, I just need directions to town, that''s all! I¡¯m right by a park and some houses and a green corner shop, does that sound at all familiar?¡±


    ¡°That is absolutely useless information to navigate with.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ that¡¯s a no?¡± Somehow Eli still sounded chirpy, and it was making Arlo grin.


    ¡°Find a street sign. I¡¯ve only got twenty-five minutes left of my break but I¡¯ll stay on the phone while I can.¡± Arlo walks away from the park, leaving it forgotten, and starts the trek back to the precinct, phone in one hand and the other scratching the back of his hair, as it so often was. ¡°Why are you going into town, anyway?¡±


    ¡°I have absolutely no bloody idea.¡± He hears light chuckling coming from over the phone speaker, followed by, ¡°I think I¡¯m on Merchant¡¯s Row.¡±


    Before he can stop it, words are tumbling out of Arlo¡¯s mouth. ¡°You must¡¯ve barely walked away from the building last night, that¡¯s my street. You can go back and wait for me to get home if you want to, I¡¯ll make you another warm drink. I mean, if you¡¯re not planning on actually doing anything or going anywhere anyway, I would hate for you to be outside in the cold and-¡± he catches himself, mid-sentence and out of breath, ¡°Sorry, I¡¯m babbling. You don¡¯t have to do any of that, to be clear. The offer is there though.¡±


    There¡¯s a painfully long pause, and Arlo¡¯s face scrunches up, contorted in embarrassment and anxiety. He wasn¡¯t doing very well at the concept of not getting involved; so far he had spent the night having tea with a homeless-guy-slash-witness, nosed into a crime scene he had absolutely no business nosing into, and then practically begged that same homeless-guy-slash-witness to come home with him again not even a day later. He figured he was probably having some sort of mental breakdown, or perhaps it was a strange dream and he¡¯d wake up and be back in the academy studying a book on everything you shouldn¡¯t do as a detective. Either way, he was sure he was losing it. The ever-engulfing silence, however, was suddenly broken.


    ¡°I¡¯ll see you when you get home, detective.¡±


    Arlo hangs up the call and squeezes his eyes shut, feelings mixed in a confusing cocktail of anxiety and regret, but also ¡­excitement? Suddenly remembering the texts he received before the phone call, he opens his messages and snorts at what appears before him:


    ELIJAH ASHER


    hrllo detextove :)


    wgy csnt i ptess yhe rifht letters???


    im cslling yiu.

 CHAPTER 5

    Arlo spends the rest of his shift tuning out what was left of the angry mob and filling out page after page of paperwork. The hours seem to slog on endlessly. When 5pm finally comes around, he shoots out of his seat at lightning speed, almost knocking a stack of files to the ground.


    ¡°In a hurry, are we?¡± Sophie laughs, suddenly next to Arlo¡¯s desk. He chuckles sheepishly, awkwardly attempting to reorganise the now-dishevelled pile.


    ¡°I, um, I actually have someone waiting for me, so I just need to get home to make sure he¡¯s okay and ¡­stuff, I guess.¡±


    ¡°Stuff?¡± She smirks, eyebrow raised at the fumbling detective. Arlo¡¯s eyes widen in horrified realisation.


    ¡°Oh my god no. Nothing like that. I didn¡¯t realise how bad that sounded. We barely know each-other, I¡¯m just helping him out. I¡¯m fairly certain the guy¡¯s homeless.¡±


    ¡°Relax, I¡¯m just kidding.¡± Her smirk softens into a friendly smile, ¡°Did you want a lift?¡±


    Reciprocating her smile, he nods. ¡°Thanks.¡±


    The decision to have Eli wait for him to arrive home was one Arlo was struggling with. On one hand, he felt like he was doing a bit of good for the world - which massively aided the same hero complex that fueled his career - but on the other hand, Eli was still a stranger. A stranger with a charming smile, wicked sense of humour, and an accent he could probably listen to forever - (What are you saying, Arlo? Snap out of it.) - but a stranger nonetheless.


    ¡°So tell me about this homeless guy.¡± Sophie breaks the silence as they walk to her motorbike that¡¯s parked on the far side of the car park. ¡°Did he approach you for help somewhere or¡­?¡± She trails off, unsure of how to finish her query. Arlo runs a hand through his hair, equally as unsure of how to answer. He couldn¡¯t confess that Eli was an active witness, not even to Sophie. They were friendly, but they weren¡¯t exactly at a level where he could be sure that she wouldn¡¯t run to the captain if she found out what he was doing. Noting the silence on Arlo¡¯s part, Sophie adds, ¡°I just can¡¯t imagine how a situation like that would even start.¡±


    Arlo clears his throat, ¡°He was lost a few nights ago. Not his town, I guess. It was raining and dark and I just thought he¡¯d be better off inside than toughing it out so I just kinda¡­ brought him home.¡±


    Sophie blinks at him, a vague expression of alarm shadowing her face, ¡°You weren¡¯t concerned he¡¯d rob you? Or like - I don''t know - attack you? He could be a murderer for all you know.¡±


    ¡°...I guess not.¡± When she put it like that, Arlo couldn¡¯t deny it sounded a little bit absurd, and incredibly reckless. He climbs onto the back of Sophie¡¯s motorcycle, his furrowed eyebrows hidden by the visor of the spare helmet she had offered him. It seemed like all he had done for the last few days was make poor, dangerous decisions, and for what? He didn¡¯t know, all he knew was that Sophie¡¯s questions had made him completely reconsider the path he was on concerning Elijah Asher. Anxiety grows deep in his chest the closer they get to his apartment building. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the roaring vehicle to grind to a halt.


    Sophie¡¯s motorbike screeches off the pavement as she pulls away from Arlo¡¯s building, leaving him behind with a ¡°see you tomorrow¡± and a wave. He had had her drop him off around the corner, so as to prepare himself before seeing Eli again. He takes a deep breath, wills his anxiety to calm, and approaches the building, already spying the familiar mess of hair he had spent so long analysing the previous night. Eli was leant up against a wall, staring directly at the setting sun and whistling a song Arlo didn¡¯t recognise, but sounded vaguely flat. Arlo couldn¡¯t help but stare, if only for a few seconds. Shaking his head, he refocuses and his mind wanders back to Sophie¡¯s words. He knew what he had to do. He also knew how much it was going to pain him to do so.


    ¡°Hi.¡± Arlo shoves his hands in his pockets nervously and Eli turns at the sound of his voice, sporting his usual charming smile.


    ¡°Detective.¡± The sheer joy imbued in his voice gives Arlo pause and conflicts his emotions further. Letting this man down was absolutely not something he wanted to do, but to let a stranger back into his house was not, by any means, smart.


    ¡°Arlo.¡± He breathed, correcting Eli with the smallest of smiles. Quickly, before anything more is said between them, he continues, ¡°If you want to wait here, I¡¯ll go get you a drink and something warm to wear. I¡¯ll sit out here with you for a bit.¡±


    Arlo watches in painful slow-motion as Eli¡¯s smile momentarily falters at the realisation he''s unwelcome back inside. It was only for a split second, but it felt like an eternity. Refusing to meet his eyes, Arlo hurriedly moves past and busies himself with the keypad on the door. He had expected Eli to respond in some way, but he simply stood motionless for a moment before sitting upon the concrete, waiting patiently.


    The kettle seems to take an hour to boil, all the while Arlo stares blankly at the two empty mugs on the counter before him. This was ridiculous. He had never had this much trouble sorting out his thoughts before. He was always incredibly methodical, but now it was as if there was a knotty ball of string wrapping itself around and around his brain, squeezing all the coherence and sensible thoughts out, leaving him with only the confusing ones - the ones that involve feelings instead of facts. It was messy, and there was nothing that unnerved him more than his brain being messy. The click of the kettle snaps him out of his spiral and he fills the mugs, preparing to carry them down four flights of stairs - hopefully - without spilling them all over himself.


    His journey down the mountain of stairs is largely unproblematic and he emerges from the front door, momentarily blinded by the setting sun warming the pavement. Eli seemed to be readily enjoying the exposure - his eyes were closed and his head gently tipped up toward the beams. Certain strands of his brunette locks were illuminated in the light, glowing a bright golden colour. Arlo stands, mesmerised by the sight and, once again, confused and conflicted at his physical response to this man. Quite honestly, he was exhausted. Exhausted at not being able to determine his feelings, exhausted at hiding them - whatever they were - and exhausted at being exhausted. Suddenly remembering the steaming drinks in his hands, he steps toward Eli and awkwardly bends down to sit beside him, handing the mug over in the process. Eli gratefully accepts, and Arlo can feel his eyes boring into the side of his head, just as they did last night. He can¡¯t bring himself to meet them though, instead focusing intently on a tree shivering in the breeze on the opposite side of the road. Neither of them break the deafening silence between them until Eli glances down at the drink he¡¯d been handed and a smile spreads quickly across his face.


    ¡°Tea?¡±


    Arlo, still pointedly not looking at the now-grinning man next to him, sipped his coffee and nodded, ¡°Pocketed a couple teabags from the break room at work. I figured it was favourable over the puddle water.¡±


    Hearing Eli laugh makes Arlo give in. He turns to face him and every sense in his body is instantly overwhelmed with every little detail of the face before him. His eyes dart rapidly between the little creases at the corners of his mouth, to the glint in his entrancingly hazel eyes, to the fresh pink tint of his skin - a gift, no doubt, from the sun now rapidly disappearing behind the trees. His laugh was like no other, his Irish lilt transforming the sound into beautiful birdsong the moment it left his lips. Arlo was sure he had never appreciated the sheer aesthetic of any other human being as much as he did in this very moment. Despite the anxiety he had felt mere moments ago, he couldn¡¯t ignore the fact that his brain was finally quiet. Listening to that laugh, sitting in his company, it was remarkably soothing.


    Taking another sip, he queries, ¡°Can I ask you something?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± Eli replies simply, sipping his own drink.


    ¡°Why on earth do you smell like half a garden centre?¡± Arlo smirks, eyebrows raised and amused at the sheer charming absurdity of this man to look, sound, and smell the way he did.


    ¡°You like it?¡± Eli teases, wiggling his eyebrows at the detective. It was a good thing the sun had already rendered Arlo¡¯s cheeks pink before Eli managed to with one silly question.


    They sit there chatting about everything and nothing all at once, until their mugs grow dry and the sky turns varying shades of black and blue like a watercolour painting. Arlo, finding a certain comfort in Eli¡¯s company, spent most of the time talking about Cara, his job, and his borderline-insane Cluedo fixation. It isn¡¯t until his stomach grumbles in protest that he realises Eli hasn¡¯t said a word in an hour or so, instead opting to just intently listen, hanging on every sentence that tumbles from Arlo¡¯s mouth in a cascading waterfall of word-vomit. Embarrassingly, the grumble is heard by both parties, as it elicits a simple, ¡°Hungry?¡± from a now-verbal Eli. Arlo¡¯s face reddens again, and he feels a pang of guilt at the notion of leaving to feed himself, abandoning the man on the pavement of whom he was sure hadn¡¯t eaten a proper meal in who-knows-how-long. He could invite him in, but then¡­ Sophie¡¯s words came chiming back in his head, steamrolling that idea. There was no morally right decision, but there was a professionally correct one, and Arlo - being a man of rules and sensibility - took it.


    ¡°I suppose I should go back inside and find something to eat then.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like a grand idea. If you starve to death, who¡¯s going to help me when I¡¯m lost?¡± Eli quipped, winking.


    Arlo smiles sadly at the ground, and rises to his feet. He laments the fact he can¡¯t even offer to bring something to eat outside, knowing full well that his refrigerator lay barren and he was probably going to resort to cereal for dinner again. His mind flicks through every possible way to say goodbye, stressing over particulars and social niceties, before his thoughts were interrupted.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°Goodbye, detective.¡± Eli chuckles, his usual farewell stalling Arlo¡¯s anxiety.


    Walking up the four flights of stairs for the second time that day, Arlo stares at the scuff marks on his shoes, feeling terribly guilty and still as confused as ever. He rarely glances up to check his path, except for when his downstairs neighbour - the young woman he had encountered with Eli on their trip up to his flat yesterday - breezes past him hastily, talking loudly on her phone and almost knocking him clean over in the process. Usually, Arlo was the type to try and figure out why people were in such a hurry; are they wearing business clothes and carrying a briefcase stuffed with papers? Probably late for work. Party dress paired with a bag so tiny it can¡¯t even hold a single credit card? The club must¡¯ve opened. He never understood why people were always in such a hurry, but then again, oftentimes so was he. Now, though, he doesn¡¯t theorise, wonder, or speculate where said neighbour was off to so late, his mind feels much too clouded, so he continues upwards to his floor.


    His apartment feels emptier than usual, having left his company on the pavement. He shuts the front door behind him and places the now-empty mugs on the kitchen counter, next to the sink. He leans against the back of the sofa and exhales, eyes closed and head tipped toward the ceiling, an expression of internal conflict spreading across his face. Opening his eyes, he takes a step toward the window overlooking the street below and dares to peek down to the pavement on which he left his companion sitting. Sighing, he pulls away from the glass. The street was once again empty - Eli had swiftly disappeared.


    ?


    The glow of the setting sun burns Eli¡¯s skin and causes tiny droplets of sweat to bead on his forehead as he hurries down the street, away from Arlo¡¯s building. His stare was sharp and focused, his lips pressed together in concentration, not unlike a lion readying itself to strike at its unsuspecting prey. The desire to stop in his tracks and walk away from the situation he found himself in was overwhelming, but he knew it was futile. Perhaps this was his true calling in life - remove the mould and stop the infection. It was as good an excuse as any. Every couple of strides he takes he quickly looks around, observing the other people on the street around him before zeroing back in on the back of the head of the unlucky person walking just a few yards ahead. He wanted to reach out and clasp a hand around their mouth, silencing them as he drags them off into an alleyway before ending their pathetic little life, but he refrained, instead stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, clenching his fists and grinding his teeth in annoyance. If he was thankful for one thing, it was that he frequently went through life unnoticed, a lucky happenstance that was incredibly well utilised in these unfortunate situations. Although, he clearly wasn¡¯t unnoticed by everyone - a certain dark haired detective, for instance, seemingly had quite an interest in him, at least, enough to invite him into his home. The pavement was a step back, he had to admit, although not entirely unreasonable, he supposed. The thought of Arlo makes the corner of Eli¡¯s mouth twitch and his eyes sparkle, but only for a fleeting second - he couldn¡¯t afford to be too distracted, especially when his target had just given him such a convenient opportunity.


    He watches as their belongings tumble from the now-broken bag they had lazily slung around their shoulder. Eli¡¯s eyes dart between each item as they fall, mentally taking note and formulating scenarios and possibilities regarding each one. As an old blue biro clatters to the ground, he imagines whisking it off the floor and embedding it into its owner''s neck, but then again - the blood. He changes focus to a bottle of pills rolling a short way away from the rest of the items and he pictures forcing each and every one of them down their throat until they start convulsing on the pavement, that is - of course - if they don¡¯t choke to death first. Both options were subpar at best, damn idiotic at worst. Eli pulls his focus away from the items and onto the other people within eyesight. Most vacate the street fairly quickly, but irritatingly, two people across the road decide to stop and have a friendly chat directly opposite from where he was fast approaching the window of opportunity. He had to think quickly. Oddly enough, an unfamiliar panic had begun to set in, but he had to do this.


    For Arlo.


    One more step, and he¡¯d be too close¡ªtoo late. He¡¯ll have to walk right past. But suddenly, his chance becomes clear. As the unsuspecting person crouches to the ground, gathering the scattered items rolling away, they reach out to place a half-drunk to-go cup carefully on the low wall of the adjacent house. Without a second to hesitate, Eli seizes the opportunity. With a swift, practised motion, he grasps the familiar glass bottle in his pocket, uncaps it, and lets a single drop fall into the cup as he passes, executing the move with remarkable dexterity and confidence. All time seems to slow as he turns a corner at the end of the pavement, leaving the grim scenario to play out to its grizzly end behind him.


    He was almost three whole streets away before he heard the sirens.


    ?


    Arlo stares at the ceiling, willing the entire thing to come crashing down on top of him. His eyes grow heavy and his stomach makes a low growling noise as he replays the last few hours he spent with Eli in his head hundreds of times over. Sophie¡¯s warning rings like a siren in his head - ¡°He could be a murderer for all you know¡± - what kind of a detective doesn¡¯t know whether they¡¯re talking to a homicidal maniac or not? He squeezes his eyes shut as a stinging sensation forms behind his right eye and engulfs his head in a cloak of white-hot pain. Sophie¡¯s voice was so prevalent that he began to believe she was in the room, screaming her constant warnings directly into his ears. She repeats the notion twice - five times - ten times - at a perfect pace just like a siren. A siren.


    ¡­a siren?


    His eyes shoot open and he flinches as the light floods in, inducing another wave of agony. Granted, he hadn¡¯t lived in the building a remarkably long time but even still, never had he heard any ambulance sirens disrupting the village peace. Until canal guy, all the deaths in this town were either from old age or illness, and neither warranted as much urgency as a speeding ambulance brought. He rises to his feet with difficulty and stumbles to the window as fast as his pounding head allows. He pulls a cord and the blinds suddenly drop, clattering on the windowsill and igniting a different point of pain behind his previously unaffected left eye. Muttering expletives, he fumbles for the other end of the cord and once again pulls, this time raising the blinds and letting the outside world in. Craning his neck against the glass, he looks down the street in the direction of the noise, but to no avail - the apartment building was set back too far on the pavement to be able to peer around the rows of houses adjacent to it. As Arlo ponders whether or not he should leave the flat and investigate, another wave of pain crashes down upon him, this time bringing its unruly companions - nausea and dizziness. He didn¡¯t suppose he would be able to hobble to the kitchen cabinet for migraine meds, let alone descend multiple flights of stairs without needing the forthcoming ambulance himself. Instead he collapses back onto the sofa and curls up, hoping that sleep would come easy and fast.


    Arlo stirs awake as he feels familiar fingertips brush his arm, tracing little circles from his elbow down to his wrist. The corners of his lips twitch upwards in response as he finds comfort in the sensation and inhales the scent of muted roses and fresh coffee swirling around the room. His eyelids flutter open and his vision comes into focus on Eli¡¯s long, brown eyelashes and captivating blue-green eyes. He watches his pupils dilate as they gaze at each other for what feels like more than an hour and less than a second all at once.


    ¡°Morning, Detective.¡± Eli utters those two words in that captivating Irish lilt and a calmness settles over the small apartment scene. Arlo¡¯s attention trends down toward his lips as he watches every tiny movement of every tiny word the man in front of him speaks. It feels like a month passes before Arlo responds, croaking out a small, hushed, ¡°good morning¡±. Taking his hand back, Eli reaches behind him and produces a fresh, steaming mug of coffee.


    ¡°Your puddle water, love.¡± They both giggle in harmonic tones as Arlo takes a sip, burning the tip of his tongue in doing so, but he feels no pain and pays it no mind as he straightens himself, sitting up to make room for Eli to sit beside him. It isn¡¯t long before he speaks again,


    ¡°So, what do you want to do today? Monopoly, Cluedo, Trivial Pursuit¡­?¡± Gesturing to the small table in front of the sofa, Arlo¡¯s eyes scan over the pile of various board games he hadn¡¯t noticed were there and land on one old, tattered box he had been carting around since he was small,


    ¡°Scrabble?¡± Arlo asks, hopefully. Eli smiles, amused.


    ¡°You only pick Scrabble because you know you always win.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you should try harder to beat me then.¡± Arlo says, shrugging and grinning impishly. Eli narrows his eyes, still grinning, and shakes his head slightly. After a few seconds he throws his hands up in defeat.


    ¡°Fine!¡±


    ~


    Arlo blinks and the world wanes and waxes, the edges polychromatic and blurry, it stalls him for a second but the sight of Eli kneeling next to the coffee table, poring over an empty Scrabble board and his small tray of seven letter tiles with seemingly agonising concentration relieves him of the unsavoury feeling. Eli places four tiles on the board, careful to center them perfectly in each square.


    ¡°There,¡± he says, resting back on his heels, ¡°your turn.¡± Arlo leans forward, inspecting the new word on the board - ¡®REAL¡¯.


    ¡°Really?¡± He queries, raising an eyebrow at the board, ¡°You only had one point tiles?¡± Eli rolls his eyes in mock irritation.


    ¡°All my tiles are absolute crap, I have, like, twenty-seven ¡®A''s, it¡¯s not my fault.¡±


    Grinning, Arlo places his own tiles on the board, crossing Eli¡¯s ¡®L¡¯ - ¡®LOCKJAW¡¯. His opponent¡¯s eyes widen as he mentally takes score of the letters.


    ¡°Christ, Arlo, that¡¯s forty-six points already!¡± Arlo smiles innocently and Eli¡¯s eyes narrow once again, ¡°Are you cheating?¡±


    Arlo scoffs. ¡°Do you even know me?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re definitely using some kind of magic Scrabble word calculator, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    Cackling at this familiar accusation, Eli takes the opportunity to lunge at Arlo, knocking him backwards in the process. Laying flat on his back with Eli atop him, his brain knows no words, no anxiety, just euphoria. They both giggle endlessly as Eli begins to rifle through Arlo¡¯s pockets for his phone, exclaiming that he must be using some sort of ¡°magic Scrabble app to win all the time¡±.


    After a while the giggles die down and the final resulting tears of amusement slip from Arlo¡¯s eyes as Eli collapses on the floor beside him. In the chaos, they had managed to jostle the table so much that Scrabble tiles were scattered all across the surrounding area, but neither of them seemed to notice nor care. Catching his breath, Arlo grins and says,


    ¡°That may have been the shortest game of Scrabble I¡¯ve ever played.¡± Taking a breath, he quickly adds, ¡°And I don¡¯t cheat!¡± He waits for the response, the comeback, but there is none. Instead, Eli just looks at him, inspecting him, as if he were cataloguing every pore on his face for later reference. His grin had faded into a content smile, and his sparkling eyes looked as if they were attempting to say a million words a minute. Arlo watches them flick down to his lips as if in slow motion. The space between them lessens as Eli leans in, the tip of his nose brushing Arlo¡¯s and sending electricity right down into his fingertips. Gently, he trails his hand up from where it was resting at Arlo¡¯s pocket, igniting a trail of fire along the length of his arm, behind his neck, and up into his hair, rendering the detective breathless. They both close their eyes, and with it, the space between them.


    Intertwined, yet still too far away, they both long achingly to push forward, allowing their lips to touch, but neither do, instead opting to just exist millimeters apart for one more moment, as if they had all the time in the universe.


    The scent of muted roses and fresh coffee begins to wane, though, as does the world.


    ~


    Arlo jolts awake, flushed and glistening with sweat. Groaning, he buries his head in his hands.


    ¡°Oh, fucking hell.¡±

 CHAPTER 6

    The landlord was first on the scene - presumably he had gotten a call after she was identified. Evidently the most bothersome part of the whole ordeal was his loss of income, otherwise he seemed to remain entirely unphased by the news. Was this common? Tenants faking their own deaths to evade their rent? Not the worst idea if you can get away with it. Luckily for her, it was a much easier story to sell when you¡¯re actually dead. He looked almost annoyed having to take inventory of what was left abandoned in the flat, only mustering up a glint of enthusiasm when he spied the opportunity to swipe some expensive-looking earrings from the sideboard and stuffed them into his shirt pocket. Next came the parents in a for-hire moving van the following morning. They were significantly more emotional; they sobbed, spluttered, laughed, and sobbed some more over practically every belonging they packed away into flimsy cardboard boxes. It hurt more than expected to watch, even from afar. Another day later the cleaners arrived. How they managed to haul a massive cart of cleaning supplies and an industrial hoover up the many flights of stairs to the flat was unknown, but impressive nonetheless. They got to work scrubbing the floor, the walls, the counters, all whilst giggling and gossiping with one-another. For all they knew, someone just moved out. How were they to know the weight of what they were doing? It was just another job. One of them produced a tub of filler and a small metal scraper and got to work filling various small holes in the walls¡­


    ¡­erasing the last traces of her.


    ?


    It had been three days since Eli did much of anything. He shifts his weight on the unforgiving metal grate of the fire escape, a hiss escaping his lips as a dull ache settles deep into his lower back. As far as stakeout spots go, it was bloody awful - no rain cover, no easy exit, and the view was all wrong - but it was the only place that didn¡¯t leave him entirely exposed, and he figured that staying hidden was better than staying dry.


    His stomach twists, trying to gnaw away at itself from the starvation. Enough time has passed that dehydration blurs the edges of his vision, the image splitting into three whenever he tries to focus on any one thing. ¡°It¡¯ll be empty soon¡±, he whispers to himself again and again, attempting to convince his body to hang on just a few more hours. The only thing giving him a mere glimmer of encouragement every now and then is the occasional movement from the apartment above. It¡¯s barely seconds at a time, but even still, just a glimpse of that dark, messy hair hits the delete button on Eli¡¯s discomfort.


    At some point he must¡¯ve given in to the exhaustion, because the next time Eli opened his eyes, every last ray of sun had been replaced with a shimmering white glow. He tips his head fondly toward the moon that hangs, full and magnificent, in the inky void. Inhaling, he closes his eyes once more and takes in the silence and stillness as if he¡¯d been starved of it for decades. He could¡¯ve stayed there forever if it weren¡¯t for the fact he was almost on day four of a plan he couldn¡¯t back out of if he tried, and his body had started to eat itself alive. As if on cue, his stomach groans, bringing his attention back to the apartment windows he had spent so much time peering into. The lights were off - the cleaners had finished and left hours ago. It was finally safe. Eli rises to his feet, wobbles a little, and quickly grips onto the railing - getting down would be harder than he thought with his body weakened. He peers over the edge, calculating whether or not he can safely jump to the ground from the level he¡¯s on. In any other situation he wouldn¡¯t even hesitate, but right now he feared his legs might snap beneath him. How did he get up in the first place? Oh yes - he climbed the drainpipe like a monkey. ¡°Great foresight, Eli.¡± He chews on his bottom lip, contemplating his options, before spying a large open dumpster within jumping reach. He sighs, a pained look on his face, as he shuffles to the edge of the fire escape.


    ¡°Something tells me this isn¡¯t going to be as smooth and painless as it is in the movies.¡± Grimacing, he sits with his legs over the edge of the platform, dangling above the pile of lumpy garbage bags a few good metres below. Taking a sharp intake of breath, he leaps. It was more like a flail, actually, but seconds later he tumbles noisily sideways into the dumpster. His brain lags for a mere moment before the pain sets in, alerting him to the damaged bone in his right arm that was crumpled beneath him. Groaning regretfully, he reaches his good arm up, hoists himself over the metal edge, and thuds ungracefully onto the cobblestone. He lay face-up on the ground, breathing deeply with his eyes squeezed shut in a mixture of exhaustion and pain. In hindsight, there were probably a hundred easier ways the last three days could¡¯ve been spent, but it was too late to change that. He analyses the damage to his body by moving each of his limbs slowly. Left arm; okay, right arm; fucked. Blood starts to seep through one side of his jeans but it¡¯s not accompanied by any discomfort, so all-in-all the outcome could¡¯ve been much worse. Stumbling to his feet, Eli shuffles lamely toward the apartment building, clutching his broken arm with his other, keeping it as still and safe as possible. In all his time without a home, shockingly, he had never once broken a bone before. He didn¡¯t know whether it was the adrenaline or the pure determination, but something was stopping him from freaking out about it. Probably for the best, considering.


    As he gets closer to the building, he casts his memory back to the night he spent on the pavement with Arlo, trying to visualise the code he punched into the keypad to open the front door. It takes four attempts before the light flicks from red to green and a buzzer sounds in triumph. Pulling the door open, he steps into the building and immediately there¡¯s a stench of industrial bleach permeating his nostrils, making him inadvertently scrunch his nose and recoil. He scans the lobby, something he was too distracted last time he was here to do, and his gaze lands on a pinboard stacked thick with flyers for various things. There were at least eight old funfair flyers and a handful of lost pet postings, random activities, sales, and private lessons filling the gaps in between. Despite the sheer volume of paper pinned to the wall, the board didn¡¯t look like it was used very often. All the pushpins had a thin layer of dust over each, and some of the paper was discoloured and crumpled. There was, however, one flyer that looked new, pinned on top of three other forgotten ads.


    APARTMENT VACANCY: APPLY NOW!


    Eli supposed the building manager barely waited for confirmation of death before advertising the vacancy - apparently rent is worth more than respect in this town. Probably many others too. He tore the flyer away from the pin and scrunched it into a ball, stuffing it deep in his pocket. The last thing he needed was somebody to rent the flat before he could get a foot in - hopefully nobody had already seen it. He looks toward the stairs and sighs. This was going to be difficult.


    Three flights later and Eli was just about ready to collapse. Even still, it took all he had to stop himself from climbing another flight and knocking on Arlo¡¯s door, surprising him. Of all those evenings watching the detective through his window, most of them involved him pacing and looking at his phone every five minutes, nervously scratching the back of his hair and chewing on his bottom lip. Eli thought - hoped - that it was because he hadn¡¯t texted in days due to the distinct lack of a plug socket on the street for his phone charger. Maybe, just maybe, Arlo thought about him just as much as he thought about Arlo. True or not, it was a good enough reason to tempt starvation and hypothermia for a handful of days.


    Eli roots around in his back pocket and pulls out two twisty bits of thin metal. He had fashioned them days prior from some loose junk he found, shaping them into the closest looking thing to lockpicks as he could manage. Being as they were untested, this was a complete long shot, but in his current state he couldn¡¯t theorise a better plan. He approaches the now-vacant flat and jams the makeshift tools into the lock, wiggling them strategically to find the pins. He¡¯d only had to do this once or twice in the past, so suffice to say it wasn¡¯t his strongest skill, but after a few minutes he felt the mechanism loosen. The lock rotated, clicked open, and the door swung inward to reveal a blank canvas of a living room. Dull, boring, plain, but none of that mattered - it was a home. Eli hurries to the first plug socket he spies and fishes his phone and charger out of his pocket. Flicking the switch, he waits anxiously for the screen to come alive and reconnect him to the man upstairs. He didn¡¯t expect anything from Arlo - he could tell he wasn¡¯t the type to chase anyone down, even if they had been off the grid for three days - but as the screen turned on, his eyes sparkled in pleasant surprise.


    2 UNREAD MESSAGES


    1 MISSED CALL


    1 VOICEMAIL


    ?


    Arlo sits chewing on the end of his pen at his desk, pretending to pore over paperwork he hasn¡¯t even started. That morning was a whirlwind he had not even begun to process, and worse yet - despite the onslaught of building drama - he couldn¡¯t stop thinking about that damn dream he¡¯d had last night. He hadn¡¯t woken up in a sweat like that in a long time, let alone had a dream like that about somebody who wasn¡¯t entirely fictional. He was stuck in a torturous loop of chewing, thinking, unlocking his phone, opening Eli¡¯s contact, hovering over the ¡®message¡¯ button, and then swiftly locking his phone and putting it back down again before he could follow through.


    Rough hands on his shoulders jolted Arlo out of his spiral. ¡°Maxwell.¡±


    Arlo swallows, instantly nervous. ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Break room. Now.¡± Arlo watches as Torres weaves back through the crowd and enters the break room, turning back to shoot him a ¡®hurry up¡¯ glare before slamming the door. Panicked and confused, he turns to Sophie who¡¯s sitting across from him tending to her own stack of unfinished paperwork. The look of confusion was mirrored in her face, but with an added tinge of amusement at the bizarre greeting.


    ¡°He¡¯s either about to steal your lunch money or this is the start of a really bad porno.¡± She giggles, gesturing to the break room with the end of her pen. ¡°Better go find out, if he¡¯s kept waiting more than sixty seconds he¡¯ll flip his shit.¡±


    Arlo sighs, silently contemplating whether or not he should make a break for it and just fling himself out of a nearby window. It sounded less painful than whatever conversation was about to happen, anyway.


    Weaving through the crowd, he enters the break room and sees Torres leant against the wall, tossing an apple repeatedly with one hand, his other arm crossed over his body impatiently as if Arlo had kept him waiting for hours. He stops tossing the apple and narrows his eyes at the cautious detective¡¯s entrance.


    ¡°Close the door.¡± Arlo obeys silently. ¡°Sit down.¡±


    ¡°Well, this is certainly in the top ten most humiliating moments of my life.¡± He thinks to himself, immediately regretting his decision to follow Torres at all. There¡¯s a long pause before anybody speaks.


    ¡°You know we haven¡¯t had any cases of foul play in this town for decades? People die, ¡®course, but it¡¯s always just because some old bat¡¯s clock ran out.¡±


    ¡°...Sorry?¡± The confusion was growing more and more by the second.


    Torres continues as if Arlo hadn¡¯t spoken. ¡°No one¡¯s moved to this town in decades either, you know. Everyone¡¯s born and buried here. We get passers through, but they don¡¯t stay for more than a day. Until you.¡± He starts to circle the room like a hawk, making the hairs on the back of Arlo¡¯s neck stand straight. He knew exactly what wild accusation was coming, and if he wasn¡¯t so on edge he might¡¯ve even laughed.


    ¡°What are you-?¡±


    ¡°You move here from god knows where, and suddenly we have two instances of foul play crop up, one of them being your own neighbour.¡±


    The colour drains from Arlo¡¯s face and his throat dries up. ¡°Hold on - she¡¯s dead?¡± The look on his face must¡¯ve been convincing, because Torres seems to be taken aback. He stays silent for a brief moment, although his eyes remain narrow and accusatory.


    ¡°There¡¯s no way you didn¡¯t hear the ambulances.¡±


    ¡°I heard them, but I fell asleep. There was no commotion or anything, I just figured there was an accident or¡­¡± He trails off, but Torres still looks sceptical, so Arlo adds, ¡°You basically said it yourself, there¡¯s no reason to immediately suspect foul play in this town. I got that lecture already when I thought the canal case was fishy.¡±


    He pauses. ¡°Why did you think that?¡±


    Arlo shrugs. ¡°Just a feeling.¡±


    Silence befalls the room for a few minutes. Without a word, Torres turns and leaves the room, clearly deep in thought and determined. Arlo stays, slightly stunned and frozen. How the hell did he miss a murder in his own building??


    A quick snoop at the open case files revealed two very important bits of information. Firstly, his neighbour was found dead not in the building, but at the end of the road, body still warm. No immediate evidence of foul play, she could¡¯ve simply collapsed, but Torres clearly wasn¡¯t convinced that was the case. Secondly, she was found mere minutes after Eli had left the pavement and walked away last night. He could be hurt too, dead even, and all because Arlo had refused to invite him inside. ¡°No, don¡¯t go there.¡± He thinks to himself, coaxing himself out of a spiral he was about to catapult down. But the thought lingers.


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Chewing his bottom lip, he pulls out his phone - which was already open on Eli¡¯s contact - taps the message icon, and sends a short message.


    Hi. How was your night?


    He stares at the message for a while, anxious. Refreshing the chat log a couple times, the read receipt still doesn¡¯t appear. There was that awful feeling in his stomach again. He stuffs the phone back into his pocket and slinks back to his desk, a look of concern painted blatantly across his features.


    Sophie squints at Arlo as he sits. ¡°Hmm¡­ not the porno then, huh?¡±


    In any normal situation, he would¡¯ve laughed, but his mind was preoccupied. Thankfully, Sophie drops the conversation - he wasn¡¯t particularly in the mood to explain the whole fiasco he¡¯d just endured.


    The rest of the workday went slowly. On days where fieldwork was sparse, Arlo sometimes wondered why he bothered going into the precinct at all. Paperwork could be done from home if it weren¡¯t for the pesky problem of taking confidential info out of the archives - but in this small nowhere-town, who would really notice? He didn¡¯t suppose anyone even looked at the security footage in that place. Lord knows that there¡¯d be a mass firing if anyone did considering just how many detectives he¡¯d seen sneaking into the evidence lockup to fool around.


    As the hours trickled by, the precinct emptied until there were only a few detectives and the Captain left. Arlo straightens the papers that he¡¯d been hunched over for far too long, haphazardly stuffing them into a folder and away into his desk drawer. Shrugging on his jacket, he turns to leave but is instead interrupted by a cheery voice calling,


    ¡°Detective Maxwell! My office please for a second.¡±


    The prospect of almost escaping but being reeled back at the last second was irritating, but if anyone could get away with it and make you feel okay with missing your cab home, it was Captain Huxley, so Arlo was happy to oblige. Her smile shines genuine and bright as usual as she offers him a seat. How she can still be so optimistic on hour ten of a gruelling shift is beyond his comprehension, but he¡¯s thankful - sometimes the positivity of your Captain is the only thing that pushes you through the day.


    ¡°I won¡¯t keep you long, I know you¡¯re off the clock.¡± She starts, taking her own seat and smiling warmly. ¡°Detective Torres tells me that you have some fresh views that would be beneficial to him on some of his open cases. He¡¯s asked for you personally to be his partner on two of them.¡±


    Arlo¡¯s mouth hangs slightly open and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. Torres regularly made a point of letting him know that he would rather stick a rusty fork in his eye than spend any extra time with Arlo - asking to be partnered on two entire cases just didn¡¯t seem quite right. He remains silent and waits for Huxley to tell him she was joking, but she doesn¡¯t.


    ¡°Normally, I wouldn¡¯t entertain such a request. These cases are delicate and not exactly what we¡¯re used to here, so my preference is to have only senior detectives work it. However, Torres made a compelling argument in your favour and - him being one of my best detectives - I trust his judgement.¡± She eyes Arlo for a moment, giving him a chance to interject, but he stays silent. ¡°Allow me to be candid with you, Arlo. Detective Torres is a very particular, headstrong man. This kind of ask from him will not happen twice, quite frankly I¡¯m shocked it¡¯s happened at all. You have a lot of potential, this would be a real chance for you to prove yourself and you should absolutely agree.¡±


    Arlo was stunned to say the least. He shifts a little in his chair and clears his throat quietly. ¡°What cases did he say he wants me on?¡±


    Huxley produces two slim folders from the drawer beside her and slides them across the desk for Arlo to open. With no hesitation, he grabs them both and flips over the cover of the first file to reveal the case details, confirming his suspicion. The first folder was unmistakably the brief for the canal case.


    ¡°I thought this one was ruled a suicide and closed.¡± Arlo meant it as a question, but it came out as more of a statement.


    ¡°Torres seems to think there¡¯s something more. With the amount of cases he¡¯s closed for this precinct, I owe him the chance to trust his gut every now and then.¡±


    Arlo nods and moves on to the next folder, recognising it immediately as the same file he took a glance at earlier in the day.


    ¡°The girl from my building?¡± Arlo looks up from the folder and realises that the Captain¡¯s smile doesn¡¯t quite reach her eyes anymore.


    ¡°Yes. Poor girl. This one could be a problem if you knew her. I¡¯ve made it very clear to Detective Torres that I will not allow you access to this particular case if there¡¯s a conflict of interest.¡±


    Shaking his head, Arlo replies quickly, ¡°I didn¡¯t even know her name. I walked past her in the hall a few times going up to my flat, but that¡¯s it.¡±


    She nods slightly and her smile seems to reemerge. ¡°Good. Then it¡¯s settled. Report to Torres in the morning, I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll let you know what he needs you to do.¡± She gestures toward the door with her head, excusing Arlo.


    ¡°Will do. Goodnight, Captain.¡±


    To say the next few days crept would¡¯ve been an understatement. The skin on Arlo¡¯s bottom lip was raw and painful, and his hand may well have been glued to the back of his hair. Still no word from Eli. On the first full day of silence, he spent most of the night pacing the length of the sofa, back and forth, until his legs burned and his head pounded. The next day, he spent three and a half hours drafting and sending another text that began as a paragraph and soon, after a boatload of cutting and editing, ended as three short words. From the outside looking in, this was an entirely disproportionate reaction to someone - almost a complete stranger at that - having not contacted you in a couple of days, but despite having only had a handful of interactions with the man, something just didn¡¯t sit right about Eli¡¯s sudden silence. Work had been an effective distraction, though. If Arlo so much as glanced at his phone, it bumped Torres¡¯ anger level up by 20%, eventually resulting in an onslaught of red-faced yelling and what could only be described as ¡®playground insults¡¯, so that prevented him from partaking in his obsessive ritual of checking his notifications every thirty seconds.


    It seemed like no one had anything to say about the death of the girl downstairs. Her parents wept their body weight in tears whilst giving their statements, but the content of them was largely unhelpful - them having been on an anniversary trip to Spain for the best part of the last two months. The landlord wasn¡¯t much help either, he just shrugged and grumbled in response to most questions. Not the worst outcome, considering he reeked of cigarettes and untreated halitosis. The only solution readily available to them was the possibility of an overdose, since the victim had been prescribed Valium two weeks ago, and almost half the bottle was already empty. It was an easy theory, really; if that wasn¡¯t what killed her now, it would¡¯ve eventually.


    Arlo jumps as the chair skids across the interrogation room floor with an ear splitting shriek. It was the fifth chair in the space of three days to meet the same unfortunate fate of a steel-toed boot to the backrest. This being precisely why they had been relocated to the dingy, depressing rooms, rather than taking statements at their desks as usual.


    ¡°Fucking useless. Everybody¡¯s fucking useless.¡± Torres mutters, pacing the room, rage simmering beneath every step. Arlo inwardly flinches every time the irate detective approaches the double sided mirror, waiting for his fist to swing from his side and shatter the entire thing into pieces. Alas, three days of pacing and flinching and the mirror remained, thankfully, intact. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat - something he always did in moments like this - Arlo clears his throat quietly and gives in to the unsettling thought that had been growing over the past three days.


    ¡°Maybe we were wrong. Maybe these really are just coincidences-¡± Arlo is cut off by Torres¡¯ steely glare and instantly regrets speaking. The pacing stops. Torres looms over the desk, eclipsing the overhead light, his presence triggering a fight-or-flight response Arlo was all too familiar with.


    ¡°Maybe you¡¯re fucking useless too.¡± He sneers, baring his teeth like a vicious dog ready to lunge. Typically, this would be Arlo¡¯s cue to shut up and let the tirade run its course. But instead, apathy washes over him, dull and unwavering. He stands and makes his way toward the door, leaving Torres scowling at the chair¡¯s black leather seat. Resting a hand on the doorknob, he pauses, looking back over his shoulder. A sudden surge of confidence resonates through him and his eyes bore into the back of Torres¡¯ head.


    ¡°Maybe I am useless, but you haven¡¯t got anything either, so join the damn club.¡± Silence hangs in the room for what feels like forever. ¡°I¡¯m frustrated too. I¡¯m sure there¡¯s something wrong with what¡¯s going on, I could bet my life on it, and it sucks that I might be wrong - that we might be wrong - but that doesn¡¯t give you the right to treat me like shit. I¡¯ve done about a month¡¯s worth of overtime in the last couple days - I¡¯m going home.¡±


    Maybe it was his sudden change of demeanour, or the fact that what Arlo said was devastatingly true, but Torres didn¡¯t retaliate. Surging with adrenaline and feeling a lot lighter, Arlo leaves the room.


    As Arlo walks back to his desk, the countless clocks scattered across the walls, desks, and computer monitors serve as a stark reminder of the time lost inside the windowless cubes of the interrogation rooms. No wonder they had nothing to go on. ¡®If I were stuck in those bloody rooms being questioned by Detective Dipshit when I was just trying to give a statement, I¡¯d be pissed.¡¯, Arlo thinks to himself, ¡®I wouldn¡¯t say anything to that guy if I was innocent, let alone guilty¡¯. They had started asking questions no later than 11am, and yet it was already dark outside. His stomach churns, cruelly reminding him that the only food he had consumed that day was a handful of pistachios and an orange. The realisation that his perpetually-empty fridge will most likely be in the same state when he returns home and not, in fact, have magically replenished itself just because he willed it so encourages a low grumble from his belly. Takeaway it is, then. Whilst grabbing his coat from the back of his chair, Arlo¡¯s eyes flicker over to the two files discarded messily on his desk. Quite plainly, he was sick to death of repeatedly flipping through the neighbour¡¯s case file - so much so that even looking at it made him inwardly grimace. With a sigh, he pushes it aside, his eyes landing on the file beneath it. The canal case. They had ignored it for the last three days, focusing instead on the neighbour, but Arlo couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that their resources would be better spent solving the first death rather than the second. The timing of it all just felt¡­ off. The robbery, Elijah Asher, the suicide, the phone call. For a nowhere-town that nothing ever happened in, it was definitely an overwhelming turn of events. He chews on his bottom lip, and deciding not to peer inside the file, grabs his coat and swiftly walks toward the door, drawing a well-needed line. The canal case would be tomorrow¡¯s conquest.


    By the time Arlo finally caught a cab and endured the tedious drive to the fish and chip shop near his flat, it was nearing 11:30pm. Outside, save for the occasional dimly lit lamp post, the world was swallowed in darkness. As he steps into the tiny hub of lights and activity, leaving behind the thick, stagnant air outside, a strange sense of displacement settles over him - as if, by passing beneath the neon sign over the door, reality had shifted ever so slightly, and he¡¯d somehow slipped into an alternate universe. He mumbles his order to the man behind the counter and rests against the cold, metal edge of a small table. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Arlo¡¯s fingers tighten around his phone. Giving in to the temptation, he pulls it out to check his notifications for the hundredth time that day. As expected, nothing - just a low battery warning glaring back at him. The screen fades to black again, and in the glass, his own reflection stares back - exhaustion carved into every line of his face. On one hand, maybe it was a good thing that Eli hadn¡¯t been in contact. Maybe their random encounters had been just that - random. A coincidence. A blip in the timeline. Perhaps Eli had already moved on to another town, another life, another ¡­person?


    Maybe.


    On the other hand, though¡­ Arlo double taps the phone screen to bring it back to life, and hurriedly finds Eli¡¯s texts. Opening them, he¡¯s met with the only two messages sent in the last three days, both from himself.


    Hi. How was your night?


    Are you alive?


    His eyes linger on the last message as a sinkhole of anxiety begins to crumble open in his stomach. The terrifying thought projected itself onto the back of Arlo¡¯s eyelids; what if he was dead? Surely they would¡¯ve heard about it. There would¡¯ve at least been gossip in the precinct if another resident keeled over on the street, cold. Then again, Eli wasn¡¯t technically a resident. He could¡¯ve skipped town. He could¡¯ve joined a cult and fled north via a series of secret underground tunnels. He could¡¯ve simply lost interest in the nobody-detective of this nowhere-town. The thought almost stops Arlo in his tracks, but instead, he swallows the lump in his throat and clicks on the name at the top of the chat. His thumb hovers over the phone icon on Eli¡¯s contact page, and despite the sinkhole in his stomach getting larger by the second, he taps on it. The moment he presses the phone to his ear, the line dies - silent, empty.


    The person you are trying to call is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.


    Panic rises in Arlo¡¯s throat as the beep fills his ears, and he scrambles to form a sentence.


    ¡°Um, hi, Elijah - uh - Eli. It¡¯s Arlo calling. Detective Maxwell.¡± He clears his throat and pinches the bridge of his nose, already regretting making the call. ¡°I haven¡¯t heard from you in a few days - not that you¡¯re obligated to keep in touch, but, I mean, I guess I¡¯m just a bit worried? I really hope that things are okay, um, just call me back, okay? Or don¡¯t. It¡¯s okay if you don¡¯t. No pressure. Just¡­ let me know you¡¯re alive.¡± He hesitates for a moment, and quickly adds, ¡°Right, uh, bye.¡±


    Pushing the hang up button, Arlo briefly considers lighting himself on fire. He¡¯s snapped out of his anxious spiral, though, by the man behind the counter waving a greasy paper-wrapped package at him. After an awkward ¡°cheers, mate¡±, Arlo steps back out into the brisk, cold night. Eyes glued to the pavement, he hurries home, food tucked neatly under his arm and his hands crammed into his pockets to avoid the chill. Three minutes later he stands at the entrance to his apartment building, fumbling with the keypad at the door. The light fog had made the cool, metal buttons a little slippery, and therefore caused Arlo to enter the code incorrectly multiple times. Finally, the buzz of the keypad allows him access, and in opening the door he lets a wave of warmth and the scent of industrial carpet wash over him. The latter would usually be a tad unpleasant, but after a fifteen hour day - it was heaven. As he traipses up the many flights of stairs, he wills his mind to focus, but the haze of lethargy starts to seep in and cloud his thoughts. Home, food, bed. Home, food, bed. Home, food, bed. His cognition wanes to three singular words and, passing his neighbours flat, he fails to sense the movement lingering just a few feet from him behind the door. He floats up the last flight of stairs and wiggles a key in the door, rattling the frame in his half-hearted attempt to unlock it. Succeeding, he stumbles into his front room and kicks his shoes off, depositing his phone, keys, and coat on the kitchen island and swiftly walking straight to the bedroom.


    He had barely started undressing before he heard the text tone.


    Arlo freezes, hands tightening around his half-unbuttoned shirt that was still hanging off of his frame. The sinkhole in his stomach grows twice the size as his mind suddenly clears and he feels much more awake. Rushing back to the kitchen, he unlocks his phone.


    Hi detective :)