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We agree and wait until our food arrives to listen to Gavin give us his terrible theory. He takes a deep breath to gather the courage to speak.
“I think my father sent the notes,” he admits, a tinge of sadness in his voice.
“Your father?” I nearly shout.
“Mitch, don’t make a scene,” Sasha hisses.
Of course she’s right. Gavin is very recognizable, and with me sitting here after his announcement that we were never a real couple, it causes several heads to turn our way and mouths to drop open in surprise.
“Sorry, I didn’t think.” My hand grips Gavin’s knee, probably causing discomfort but he doesn’t complain. “You really think your father did this? Cut off a human finger? That he’s a serial killer?” I rant.
“No, not a killer. You said there were two suspects, one tame and one serious. I think he’s the non-threatening one, sending notes to keep me in the closet,” Gavin explains.
I grunt non-committedly as Sasha nods, obviously agreeing with Gavin’s hypothesis.
Gavin turns his upper body to face me. “Think about it Mitch. The notes started a long time ago, years. According to Ross, they weren’t threatening enough to even bother telling me.”
“Okay, but it could be anyone, so why your dad?” I ask, trying to wrap my mind around a parent being so cruel. Yet I know it could be true. I’ve seen humanity at it’s worst, and sending homophobic notes is nothing compared to what I’ve dealt with.
Gavin’s mouth curves down in distaste. “He came to my house the other day.”
“What?” My entire body stiffens with rage. A man so cruel he drove his son to suicide had the nerve to go to his home?
“Mitch, you’re going to bust a vessel,” Sasha notes. “Calm down.”
Always cool and collected. That’s why she’s such a good Agent. Never cracks under pressure, never lets the job get to her… she’s the ultimate professional.
I, on the other hand, struggle to control the white-hot rage that thrums through my veins. Gavin rests his hand on my back, drawing small circles with his thumb. Somehow, the contact brings me down from homicidal fury to merely livid.
“He came by. I haven’t seen the man in ten years,” Gavin says, his eyes vacant, likely from learning to detach from any emotions he ever had for his father. “He was upset, practically begging me to deny that I’m gay. He said something about the stalker, that ‘he’ll never stop’ if I don’t.”
Gavin’s gaze flicks up to mine and the love I feel for him explodes into a desperate need to protect and defend. My hands are nearly shaking with anger and devotion, wavering between the need to harm his stalker and the need to worship every inch of Gavin’s body.
“He’ll never stop,” Sasha repeats. I reluctantly let my eyes leave Gavin, glancing across the table to my friend. She’s in full FBI mode, the pieces clicking together in that sharp mind.
I allow myself to detach from the case, to think about it objectively. The thought comes to me at the same time as Sasha’s face turns to disgust.
“They’re working together,” she says as I blurt out, “Your dad knows him.”
Gavin looks back and forth between us, confused. “Explain what you just said.”
I nod to my former co-worker, allowing her to take the lead.
Sasha leans over the table, “You father sent the notes, but he knows who the real stalker is. He’s worried for you. As much as he might despise who you are, he doesn’t want you to be physically harmed.”
“I don’t get it,” Gavin admits.
“Gavin, your dad probably sent notes here and there, urging you to stay in the closet. To save him humiliation or whatever his fucked up reasons are for not wanting you out. Somehow, he met someone who could help him out with the threats, maybe not realizing the guy was certifiably psychotic.”
“No,” Gavin shakes his head. “You didn’t see him the other day. He doesn’t want me to be hurt. He might hate me, he won’t ever accept me, but he wouldn’t work with a killer. He was in the Air Force for fuck’s sake. He protected people. He’s a lot of things, but a killer?”
I throw down some money and stand, pulling Gavin to his feet. Sasha grabs her purse. “We’ll see about that,” I growl.
Gavin
Mitch stops his car in front of my dad’s massive house in Holmby Hills, a very affluent part of Los Angeles. I wrinkle my nose in distaste. It’s a huge, pretentious nightmare with columns and sculpted hedges and an air of ‘I’m better than you’ stamped all over it.
“I didn’t grow up here,” I mention again, not wanting Mitch to think I spent my childhood in this hideous display of power. “My mom had better taste.”
