Chapter 13: The Dead Don't Stay Buried
Matthew stared at the stark white ceiling of his UN office, the fluorescent lights humming a monotonous counterpoint to the riot inside his skull. His fingers traced the edge of the polished mahogany desk, cool and solid, utterly at odds with the phantom heat still blooming on his skin. Last night replayed in fractured snapshots: The demanding crush of Joe’s mouth. The scrape of teeth against his collarbone. The iron grip on his wrists. The raw, guttural words – Mine. Only mine.
He shifted in his ergonomic chair, a dull ache blooming low in his back. It wasn't unpleasant. That was the terrifying part. The sheer, consuming intensity of Joe’s possession… it hadn’t pushed him away. It had ignited something primal, something shocking deep within his usually controlled, diplomatic core. He’d wanted that surrender. He craved the ferocity. After the measured politeness of Dublin and the transactional encounters in New Delhi, Joe’s all-consuming fire felt… real. Necessary. Like finally waking up after years of sleepwalking.
He’s obsessed with you. The thought should have been a warning klaxon. Instead, a treacherous warmth spread through Matthew’s chest. Obsession. Such an ugly word. But wrapped in Joe’s fierce protectiveness, whispered against his skin… it felt like devotion. A terrifying, potentially destructive devotion, but devotion nonetheless.
Fitzpatrick doesn’t get to touch you. Never again. Joe’s snarl cut through the memory. Matthew frowned, brushing his fingertips over the faint, tender mark just below his ear, hidden by his collar. The Ambassador’s hand on his back at the Metropolitan Club… it had been professionally supportive. Hadn’t it? The spark he’d sometimes felt with Tony? A dangerous, unprofessional spark, yes, but one he’d always carefully banked. Had Joe seen something more? Or was Joe’s possessiveness painting shadows where there were none? The confusion churned, mixing uneasily with the lingering thrill.
The sterile efficiency of his office felt suddenly suffocating. Polished floor, sleek desk, framed diplomatic commendations – the trappings of a carefully constructed life. Last night felt like a demolition ball smashing through it. He needed air. Real air, not the climate-controlled, filtered stuff piped into the UN fortress. He grabbed his briefcase and his overcoat, shrugging it on as he pushed through the heavy door.
The corridor outside was a river of purposeful energy – aides scurrying, diplomats murmuring in hushed tones, the clatter of keyboards bleeding from open doorways. The air smelled of coffee, toner, and the faint, persistent tang of polished metal. Matthew navigated the flow on autopilot, nodding absently at colleagues, his mind still half-caught in the tangled web of Joe’s intensity and the unsettling flicker of doubt about Fitzpatrick.
He pushed through the grand revolving doors onto the plaza. The sheer scale of the UN complex, glass and steel soaring against the grey November sky, usually instilled a sense of purpose. Today, it just felt imposing. Cold. He took a deep breath of the biting city air, laced with exhaust and damp concrete, and turned towards the waiting line of cabs.
"Matthew Sterling?"
The voice was female, firm, and came from his left. He turned, expecting another colleague. The woman standing there wasn't familiar. She was maybe mid-forties, dressed in a practical, dark wool coat over a navy pantsuit. Her hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, revealing a face that was attractive but weathered by city life and focused intensity. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, locked onto his. She held out a simple business card.
"Sorry to ambush you," she said, her voice low but carrying clearly over the city din. "My name is Elena Rossi. I’m a private investigator."
Matthew blinked, the cold air suddenly sharper. A PI? He automatically took the card. 'Rossi Investigations'. A phone number. An Upper West Side address. Nothing else. "I… do I know you?" he asked, his diplomatic mask instinctively sliding into place, polite confusion masking the sudden prickle of unease.
"No, Mr. Sterling, you don't." Her gaze never wavered. She scanned his face, seemingly cataloging his reaction. "I was hoping I could have a few minutes of your time. Someplace quieter?"
Matthew glanced around the bustling plaza. "Regarding what, exactly? I’m afraid my schedule is quite packed…" The practiced deflection felt flimsy even to him.
"It’s about Jacob Ryan," Rossi said. The name landed like a physical blow. Jake. Matthew stiffened, his knuckles whitening on his briefcase handle. He hadn't heard that name spoken aloud in… weeks? Since Jake casually mentioned his spontaneous trip to Costa Rica. Just blowing off steam, Matt. Catch some waves, maybe find myself. The flippant text message. The subsequent silence Matthew had attributed to bad signal, then Jake being Jake – charmingly unreliable.
"Jake?" Matthew managed, his voice tighter than he intended. "What about him? Is he okay?"
Rossi’s expression remained neutral, professional, but her eyes sharpened. "That’s precisely what his family is trying to determine, Mr. Sterling. They hired me." She paused, letting the implication hang in the cold air. "You were the last person he was known to have communicated with before he allegedly left for Costa Rica."
"Allegedly?" The word tasted metallic. The unease exploded into full-blown alarm. "He told me he was going. Texted me from the airport." Even as he said it, a chilling doubt wormed its way in. The texts had been unusually brief. Vague.
"He never boarded the flight, Mr. Sterling," Rossi stated flatly. "His passport wasn’t scanned leaving the country. His credit cards haven’t been used since the day before that text. His apartment lease expired; his belongings were packed, but according to the super, no movers came. His family… they’re frantic. They tried reaching you, but it seems your contact information changed?"
Matthew felt the blood drain from his face. The plaza seemed to tilt. The imposing UN building at his back felt less like a sanctuary and more like a silent, indifferent witness. He had changed his number a few weeks ago. After meeting Joe. Joe had convinced him his old number was compromised, full of spam, that a new one would be more secure. Clean slate, Matthew. Just you and me, no ghosts. A wave of nausea washed over him.
"He… he texted me," Matthew repeated, the defense sounding weak, pathetic. "He told me he was leaving. Going surfing." Even to his own ears, it sounded absurd. Jake hated the ocean. Had a near-phobia of big waves. Surfing? The lie was suddenly, horrifyingly obvious. Why hadn’t he questioned it? Why had he accepted it so easily?
Because you were already falling for Joe, a cold voice whispered inside him. Because Joe made Jake seem like a distraction. An obstacle. Something easily discarded.
Rossi watched him intently, absorbing every micro-expression. "His family finds that… difficult to reconcile. Jake was terrified of the ocean, Mr. Sterling. He didn't surf." She stated it as simple fact. "They’re worried something happened to him here, in the city, before he could leave. Foul play is suspected."
Foul play. The words echoed in the cavern of Matthew’s sudden terror. Images assaulted him: Jake’s easy smile. Their last awkward coffee, when Jake had clearly just wanted a quick hookup and Matthew had pushed for something more. The frustration in Jake’s eyes. Then… nothing. Just that text.
"I… I don’t know what to tell you," Matthew stammered, his diplomatic composure fracturing. His hand trembled slightly on his briefcase. "We weren't… it wasn't serious. When he said he was leaving, I just… wished him well." He remembered Joe’s quiet satisfaction when he’d mentioned Jake was gone. Good riddance. He didn’t appreciate you, Matthew. "Have you spoken to his friends? His job?"
Rossi nodded, pulling a small notebook from her coat pocket. "Extensively. The trail ends abruptly after his last contact with you. His phone last pinged near his apartment building. Then silence." She flipped a page. "His job at SynapseTech confirmed he gave notice citing a 'travel opportunity', effective immediately. They haven't heard from him since." She looked up, her gaze piercing. "You were his most recent significant contact, Mr. Sterling. His family is desperate. Any detail, anything you might remember about his state of mind, anyone he mentioned being concerned about… anything unusual in the days before he disappeared?"
Unusual? The world tilted again. Joe. Joe entering his life like a whirlwind, intense, charming, erasing everything before him. Joe’s quiet disdain for Jake. He’s using you, Matthew. He doesn't see how incredible you are. Joe’s insistence on the new phone. Joe’s burning possessiveness last night… Mine. Only mine.
"No," Matthew choked out, the lie tasting like ash. "Nothing unusual." His vision blurred slightly at the edges. He needed to sit down. He needed to be anywhere but here. "I’m… I’m sorry. I have a critical meeting. I need to go." He fumbled for his phone, a desperate shield. "Please… give my condolences to his family. I wish I had more."
Rossi’s expression didn’t change, but Matthew saw the calculation in her eyes. She knew he was lying. She knew he was bolting. She extended another card. "My number’s on here. Day or night. If you remember anything. Anything at all."
Matthew snatched the card, not meeting her eyes. "Yes. Of course." He turned abruptly, nearly stumbling in his haste, flagging down the first cab he saw with frantic urgency. He yanked the door open and practically fell into the back seat, slamming it shut.
"Upper East Side. 77th and Lex. Fast," he gasped to the driver, his voice shaking. As the cab pulled away from the curb, he twisted in his seat. Elena Rossi stood on the curb, watching him go, a lone, determined figure against the monolithic backdrop of the UN, her notebook still in her hand. Her stare seemed to bore into the retreating car.
He sank back against the worn vinyl, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The card felt like a live coal in his trembling hand. Jake. Gone. Not in Costa Rica. Possibly dead. Foul play suspected.
His mind raced, a chaotic tumble of images: Jake’s easy laugh. Joe’s intense, dark eyes. The raw possessiveness. He can't have you. You're not his. The chilling ease with which Joe dismissed Jake. The new phone. The isolation Joe cultivated.
The cab sped through the city, the buildings blurring past. Matthew clutched his briefcase like a lifeline, staring unseeing at the passing streets. The thrilling intoxication of Joe’s obsession curdled in his stomach, replaced by a cold, creeping dread that seeped into his bones, deeper and more terrifying than any diplomatic crisis he’d ever faced. The polished surface of his world had cracked, revealing jagged, dark fissures beneath. And standing at the center of that darkness was Joe.
The polished marble lobby of The Last Chapter bookstore felt cavernous and unnervingly quiet after the frantic cab ride. Matthew pushed through the heavy oak door, the familiar scent of aging paper and rich espresso doing little to calm the tremor in his hands. He scanned the cluttered space – no customers, just Joe behind the counter, meticulously polishing a glass mug, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked up, and a slow, warm smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Matthew? Hey! This is a surprise." His voice was pure honey, that soothing baritone Matthew craved. "What brings you by in the middle of the day? Everything okay?"
The genuine warmth in Joe’s expression, the sheer normalcy of him standing there wiping a coffee mug, almost made Matthew doubt the icy dread that had settled in his gut. He leaned heavily against a display table stacked with new hardcovers, the titles blurring before his eyes. "Joe... something happened." His voice cracked. "Outside the UN. Just now."
Joe’s smile faltered slightly, replaced by attentive concern. He set the mug down carefully, his gaze locking onto Matthew’s face. He reached across the counter, his cool fingers brushing Matthew’s still-chilled knuckles. "You look pale. Like you've seen a ghost. Sit, tell me." He gestured towards the worn armchairs near the fiction section, his movements calm, deliberate. "Was it Fitzpatrick? Did he—?"
"No," Matthew interrupted, shaking his head, the motion sharp, jerky. "Not Tony.A woman. A private investigator. Elena Rossi." He fumbled in his coat pocket, pulling out the crisp white card like it was radioactive. "She said... she said Jake's family hired her. Joe... he never went to Costa Rica." The words tumbled out, thick with disbelief and rising panic. "He never got on the flight. His passport... nothing. His family thinks... they think something happened to him. Foul play. She said I was the last person he contacted." He stared at Joe, searching his face for... what? Confirmation? Denial? He didn't know. The memory of Joe’s grip, his voice snarling Mine, echoed. "She asked about his state of mind. If anything was unusual. She... she knew Jake hated the ocean. Surfing? It was a lie, Joe."
Inside Joe’s chest, a jackhammer started.PI. Rossi. Asking questions. Digging. Touching my Matthew. Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through him. They know he didn't leave. They suspect. Matthew knows it was a lie. But his face? A masterpiece of calm concern. He rounded the counter, closing the distance between them. He gently took Matthew’s shaking hands, his own steady and warm. "Whoa, whoa.Okay. Deep breath, Matthew. Look at me." His eyes held Matthew’s, deep and seemingly fathomless with reassurance. "That’s... incredibly upsetting news. Jake’s family hired her? God, poor people. They must be out of their minds with worry."
He guided Matthew towards one of the armchairs, easing him down, then crouched beside him, maintaining eye contact. His thumb stroked the back of Matthew’s hand. "But Matthew, sweetheart, people disappear for all kinds of messy, non-homicidal reasons every day. Especially guys like Jake." He injected a subtle note of distaste, carefully calibrated. "He was impulsive. Selfish. You know that. He told you he was going to Costa Rica, then probably got cold feet or found a better offer halfway to JFK. Decided to ghost everyone. Classic Jake move."
Matthew searched Joe's earnest expression. "But his passport? His cards? His apartment?"
Joe shrugged dismissively, the picture of rational thought. "He could be crashing with some tech bro fling he met online, living off cash, avoiding responsibility. Or maybe he did leave the country, just not to Costa Rica. Used a friend's passport? Bribed someone? People do wild things when they want to vanish. An investigator... Rossi... she's just doing her job," he conceded, his tone softening sympathetically. "But it sounds like she's preying on a grieving family's worst fears. Turning a flaky guy's disappearing act into a paycheck. It happens. Ambulance chasers, grief vultures."
He squeezed Matthew's hand firmly. "They're overreacting because they're scared. It’s understandable, but it doesn't mean they're right. And dragging you into it?" Joe shook his head, his expression shifting to protective indignation. "Unfair. Cruel, actually. You were nothing but decent to him, even when he didn’t deserve it." His gaze intensified, locking onto Matthew’s. "You are here, Matthew. With me. You are safe. That PI? She’s chasing shadows. Jake made his choices. Don’t let his chaos become yours."
Matthew leaned back into the chair, some of the terrible tension draining from his shoulders, replaced by exhaustion. Joe’s explanation, delivered with such calm logic, such protective warmth, felt like a shield. The chilling suspicion, the image of Jake terrified, the shadow of Joe’s possessiveness – they receded under the force of Joe’s soothing certainty. "You... you really think so? It just felt so... real. Her certainty."
"Her job is to sound certain," Joe murmured, reaching up to gently brush a stray strand of hair from Matthew’s forehead. The touch lingered, possessive and comforting at once. "She plants doubt to get leads. It’s manipulative. You’re stressed. Last night was intense, the Finns were intense... this is the last thing you need." He stood, pulling Matthew up with him. "Go home. Pour a huge glass of that ridiculously expensive bourbon you like. Take a bath. Unplug. Let me handle the bookstore close. I’ll come over later, okay? Bring takeout. We’ll talk, or we won’t talk. Whatever you need."
Matthew nodded, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. The sheer relief of having someone take charge, someone to lean on, was overwhelming. "Okay. Okay, yes. Thank you, Joe." He squeezed Joe’s hand back. "You always know what to say."
"I only care about what you need," Joe said softly, pressing a reassuring kiss to Matthew’s temple. "Now go. Rest. I’ve got you." He guided Matthew gently towards the door, his hand a steadying presence on the small of his back.
The bell above the door chimed cheerfully as Matthew stepped out into the grey afternoon. Joe watched him walk down the street, Matthew’s shoulders already less slumped, the frantic edge visibly smoothed by Joe’s performance. The warm, concerned mask stayed fixed until Matthew turned the corner and vanished from sight.
Then, instantly, the mask dissolved. The warmth vanished from Joe’s eyes, replaced by a chilling, focused intensity. The calm facade cracked open, revealing the icy calculation beneath. He locked the bookstore door, flipping the sign to ‘Closed’. The cozy atmosphere of the shop suddenly felt like a stage set he was dismantling.
He moved behind the counter, not to the register, but to a locked drawer beneath it. He retrieved a sleek, unremarkable laptop he kept separate from everything else. Opening it, the glow illuminated his face, casting sharp shadows. No trace of the comforting boyfriend remained. His fingers flew across the keyboard, accessing layers of encryption with practiced ease.
Elena Rossi. Private Investigator. Upper West Side. His search was swift, brutal efficiency. Her website, professional associations, possible known associates, her standard operating procedures gleaned from obscure forums and legal databases. He needed leverage. Weaknesses. Patterns.
Simultaneously, another browser window opened. Jake Ryan’s dormant social media profiles flared back to life under Joe’s control. He navigated to Jake’s Instagram. Not the main feed. A secondary, lesser-known account Jake had mentioned once, months ago, while scrolling drunk and complaining about tech burnout. An account Joe had meticulously noted and quietly commandeered weeks prior.
He scrolled through old, mostly forgotten photos – blurry concert shots, half-eaten meals, a sunset. He selected one. A generic beach photo, palm trees, turquoise water, not Costa Rica specifically, but plausibly tropical. Uploaded it. His fingers paused over the caption box. He typed, channeling Jake’s casual, slightly arrogant tone, honed from months of observation: Didn't make CR. Detour. Found paradise. Off-grid for a bit. Don't wait up. He added a single, deliberately vague hashtag: #NoSignal.
He posted it. Set the location to ‘Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica’ – close enough to the original story to be plausible, far enough to explain the "detour". He then meticulously scrubbed the post’s metadata, routing it through multiple anonymous servers, ensuring it pinged off towers nowhere near New York, creating a thin, fragile digital alibi. He reactivated Jake’s phone number just long enough for a single, automated "location update" notification to his cloud backup, tied vaguely to Central America, before permanently deactivating it again.
Back to Rossi. He found a lead. An old, minor complaint from a disgruntled client, buried in a niche PI review site. He amplified it. Created two fresh, anonymous burner email accounts. Drafted separate, detailed messages to Rossi’s professional address. One, posing as a potential client, asking pointed, slightly paranoid questions about her methods and ethics, referencing the complaint. The other, from a "concerned citizen" who’d supposedly seen Jake Ryan arguing violently with an unknown man near a known drug hotspot in Brooklyn weeks ago – a lead designed to send her chasing shadows in the opposite direction, painting Jake as unstable, involved in something dangerous before he vanished, entirely separate from Matthew Sterling.
He hit send on both emails. The digital seeds were planted. He leaned back, the blue light from the screen reflecting in his flat, emotionless eyes. The investigator was circling. Matthew’s trust was fragile. The Ambassador remained a looming presence. But Joe wouldn’t tolerate interference. He meticulously cleared the browser history and closed the laptop, the quiet click echoing in the silent bookstore. The game required vigilance. Adaptation. Protection. Matthew was his. The world was full of obstacles, but Joe was an expert at removing them. One way, or another.