Chapter 14: Who Is Conrad?
The low thrum of conversation and the sharp clatter of chopsticks faded into a pleasant buzz as Matthew leaned back against the sleek leather booth. Across the small, polished table, Joe lifted the delicate ceramic sake cup, the warm amber liquid catching the dim, recessed lighting. "To forgetting," Joe murmured, his eyes soft, holding Matthew's gaze. "To us."
Matthew clinked his own cup against Joe's. "To forgetting," he echoed, the smooth heat of the sake warming his throat, momentarily pushing aside the lingering chill from Elena Rossi’s visit and the phantom worry about Jake. The restaurant was perfect – intimate, modern, the air fragrant with ginger, soy, and seared fish. Joe had chosen well. Again. He always did. The intensity of last night, Joe’s fierce possession, felt distant here, replaced by a comforting, familiar closeness. "This place is incredible, Joe. How did you even get a reservation?"
Joe smiled, a touch of pride in it. "Called in a favor. Knew you needed a proper escape hatch after the week you've had." He reached across the table, his fingers brushing Matthew’s knuckles. "Seeing you relax… that’s worth any favor."
They lingered over the last bites of miso-glazed cod and shared a dessert of black sesame ice cream, the conversation easy, drifting from bookstore gossip to a new exhibit at MoMA Matthew wanted to see. The knot of anxiety in Matthew’s chest loosened further. Joe was right. Rossi was chasing shadows. Jake was… being Jake. This – the quiet intimacy, Joe’s attentive presence – was real.
As Joe signaled for the check, Matthew felt a contented weariness settle over him. "Ready to brave the cold?" Joe asked, sliding his card into the folio.
"Ready," Matthew agreed, shrugging into his wool coat. They stood, weaving through the tightly packed tables towards the exit, the buzz of the restaurant rising again as they moved away from their secluded booth.
They were almost at the heavy wooden door when a voice cut through the ambient noise, sharp with surprise. "Joe? Joe Goldberg? Is that you?"
Matthew turned first. A man stood near the hostess stand, mid-forties, wearing a slightly rumpled blazer over a dark sweater, his expression shifting from confusion to hesitant recognition as he stared past Matthew at Joe.
Joe froze. For a fraction of a second, Matthew saw it – a flicker of something raw and panicked in Joe’s eyes, instantly smothered. It vanished so quickly Matthew almost doubted he’d seen it. Joe’s face rearranged itself into polite confusion, then cautious recognition. "Chris? Chris Miller?" Joe’s voice was carefully modulated, surprised but controlled. He took a half-step forward, subtly positioning himself slightly in front of Matthew. "Wow. Small world. What are you doing in New York?"
Chris closed the distance, offering a handshake Joe accepted with a firm, brief grip. "Business trip. Tech conference downtown." Chris’s gaze flickered to Matthew, curious. "And you? Last I heard… well, after Conrad…" He trailed off, his expression clouding with something uncomfortable. Sadness? Concern?
"Conrad?" Matthew echoed softly. The name meant nothing to him. He watched Joe’s profile. Joe’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Yeah," Chris continued, turning his attention back to Joe, oblivious to the sudden tension radiating from him. "Conrad Peyton. You guys were…" He gestured vaguely. "Serious. For a while. Before he took off." He shook his head, a frown deepening. "Still can't believe he just vanished like that. Rome, right? Impulsive trip? Never came back." He lowered his voice slightly. "His parents hired investigators, you know. Years ago. Nothing. Just… gone." He looked directly at Joe, his eyes searching. "You never heard anything? After? Not a word?"
Inside Joe’s skull, a siren screamed. Conrad. The name was a physical blow, conjuring the sterile scent of disinfectant, the frantic struggle in Conrad’s cramped apartment, the awful, final stillness. The frantic cleanup. The drive north, the weighted silence sinking into the cold Pacific. San Francisco dissolving like smoke behind him. Chris Miller. Conrad’s annoying, earnest friend from med school. Always hovering. Asking questions Joe couldn't answer then. Asking them now. In front of Matthew.
Joe forced air into his lungs. He manufactured a look of profound sadness, tinged with weary resignation. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture Matthew recognized as Joe gathering himself. "Chris… God, Conrad." His voice dropped, thick with a grief that felt terrifyingly real, even to him. "No. Nothing. Not a call, not an email. Nothing." He shook his head slowly, his gaze dropping to the polished concrete floor. "It wrecked me. You know that. Just… vanished. The investigators hit dead ends. His parents…" He sighed, the sound heavy with shared sorrow. "I think they finally had to accept… he didn't want to be found. Or…" He let the implication hang, unspoken. Or something worse found him. "It’s still hard to talk about."
Matthew watched, fascinated and unnerved. The shift in Joe was seamless – the charming date-night companion dissolving into a man burdened by profound, unresolved loss. It was convincing. Too convincing? The raw panic he’d glimpsed was gone, replaced by this deep, aching sadness. But the timing… Conrad vanished impulsively? Like Jake?
Chris nodded sympathetically, placing a hand briefly on Joe’s shoulder. "Yeah. Sorry to bring it up, man. Just seeing you… it just hit me. Still feels surreal." He glanced at Matthew again, offering an apologetic smile. "Sorry, didn't mean to ambush you guys. I'm Chris."
"Matthew Sterling," Matthew said automatically, shaking Chris’s offered hand. His diplomatic mask was firmly in place, polite interest masking the whirlwind of questions suddenly churning inside. Conrad Peyton. Vanished. After an impulsive trip. Investigators. Dead ends. The parallels were chillingly stark.
"Nice to meet you, Matthew," Chris said. "Joe, seriously, good to see you landed on your feet. You look… good." He sounded genuinely relieved.
"Thanks, Chris," Joe replied, managing a small, tight smile. "You too. Enjoy the conference." The dismissal was gentle but firm.
"Yeah, yeah," Chris said, stepping back. "Don't let me keep you. Take care, Joe." He gave Matthew another nod. "Nice meeting you."
"You too," Matthew murmured.
Joe placed a guiding hand on the small of Matthew’s back, propelling him gently but insistently towards the exit. "Let's get some air," he murmured, his voice low and strained.
The crisp November night hit them like a slap as the door swung shut behind them, muffling the restaurant's warmth and noise. They walked in silence for half a block, the city sounds – honking cabs, distant sirens, snippets of passing conversations – filling the space between them. Matthew could feel the tension vibrating off Joe, a live wire humming beside him.
"Joe," Matthew began, his voice carefully neutral. "Conrad…?"
Joe stopped walking abruptly under the harsh glare of a streetlight. He turned to face Matthew, his expression etched with pain. "Matthew… God." He ran both hands over his face. "I didn't… I never wanted you to find out like that. About Conrad." His eyes were wide, vulnerable. "It was… the worst time of my life. Before New York. Before you."
"What happened?" Matthew asked quietly. The diplomat in him noted the evasion. Find out like that. Not find out.
Joe looked away, down the bustling street, his shoulders slumping. "We were together for almost two years in San Francisco. He was… brilliant. A med student. Kind. Funny." His voice cracked convincingly. "Then, out of nowhere, he said he needed space. Needed to 'find himself'. Booked a flight to Rome. Sent me one text from the airport. 'Don't wait up.'" Joe’s laugh was short, bitter. "And that was it. Gone. Poof. Like he never existed." He met Matthew’s eyes again, his own shimmering with unshed tears. "The police. Private investigators his parents hired… nothing. He just… disappeared. They found his luggage abandoned near the Spanish Steps. His passport gone. Money withdrawn. Then… silence." He shuddered. "They think… maybe he got involved with something over there. Something bad. Or…" He swallowed hard. "Or he just chose to vanish. Start over. Without me. Without anyone."
The story flowed with practiced ease, woven with threads of truth – Conrad’s brilliance, his status, the location – twisted into a narrative of abandonment. Matthew listened, watching Joe’s face, the tremor in his hands, the raw grief in his voice. It was a devastating performance. Yet, beneath the empathy it evoked, a cold sliver of doubt lodged itself in Matthew’s mind. The panic. The way Joe had subtly blocked him. The exact echo of Jake’s disappearance. Impulsive trip. Vanished. Investigators baffled.
"It sounds… horrific," Matthew said softly, placing a hand on Joe’s arm. He felt the muscle tense beneath the coat sleeve. "I'm so sorry you went through that."
Joe covered Matthew’s hand with his own, his grip tight, almost desperate. "Thank you," he whispered hoarsely. "It took me years to… function again. Coming to New York was part of starting over. Leaving that ghost behind." He pulled Matthew closer, burying his face briefly in Matthew’s shoulder. Matthew could feel the rapid thud of Joe’s heart against his own chest. "Then I met you," Joe murmured into his coat. "And everything changed. You made me believe again." He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching Matthew’s face, intense and pleading. "Please don't… don't let Chris dredging that up… don't let it change anything between us. Conrad was a ghost long before he vanished. You’re my reality."
Matthew looked into Joe’s eyes, so full of apparent love and vulnerability. The warmth of Joe’s body, the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the cold night air, the memory of their closeness just moments before in the restaurant… it all pulled at him. He wanted to believe. Needed to believe. The alternative – the dark shape coalescing at the edges of his thoughts – was unthinkable.
"It doesn't change how I feel," Matthew said, the words feeling thick in his throat. He squeezed Joe’s hand. "It just… surprised me. That’s all."
Relief flooded Joe’s features, so profound it looked like exhaustion. "Thank you," he breathed, pulling Matthew into a proper embrace, holding him tightly on the crowded sidewalk. "Thank you, Matthew." Over Matthew’s shoulder, Joe’s gaze scanned the street, sharp and alert. Chris was gone. For now. But the damage was done. The ghost was here. In New York. Standing right beside Matthew Sterling. And Matthew’s eyes, when he’d asked about Conrad, hadn’t held simple sympathy. They’d held a flicker of something else. Something dangerously close to suspicion.
Joe tightened his hold, pressing his lips to Matthew’s temple. "Let's go home," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Just us."
Matthew nodded against him, letting Joe guide him down the street. But as they walked, Matthew’s mind wasn’t on the warmth of Joe’s hand or the promise of home. It was fixed on the chilling symmetry: Conrad Peyton. Med student. San Francisco. Impulsive trip. Vanished. Investigators. Dead ends. And Jake Ryan. Tech worker. New York. Impulsive trip. Vanished. Investigators. Asking questions. The rhythm was too perfect. The echo too loud. And Joe Goldberg stood at the haunting center of both vanishing acts. The comforting warmth of Joe’s presence couldn't quite dispel the cold dread seeping into Matthew’s bones, whispering a terrifying question he wasn't ready to voice aloud.
The comforting warmth of Joe’s presence couldn't quite dispel the cold dread seeping into Matthew’s bones, whispering a terrifying question he wasn't ready to voice aloud. He focused instead on the solid pressure of Joe’s arm linked through his, anchoring him against the unsettling echoes – Conrad’s vanished life mirroring Jake’s unsettling silence. Streetlights cast long, distorted shadows on the wet pavement as they walked the final blocks to Matthew’s apartment building, the city’s nocturnal rhythm a low thrum beneath their silence. Joe’s thumb traced small, deliberate circles on the back of Matthew’s hand, a silent plea for connection, for the sanctuary of home.
"Almost there," Joe murmured, his voice a low vibration Matthew felt more than heard, pulling him closer against the November chill. Inside the lobby’s sudden warmth, the familiar scent of lemon polish and old stone offered a deceptive normalcy. The doorman, Henry, gave his usual nod. "Evening, Mr. Sterling.Mr. Goldberg." His tone held its customary neutrality, oblivious to the tension coiling in Matthew’s gut or the frantic calculations racing behind Joe’s carefully composed smile. "Quiet night, Henry," Matthew managed, his voice sounding distant to his own ears.
The elevator ride to the 12th floor was a silent, mirrored box. Matthew watched their reflection – Joe leaning casually against the railing, head tilted slightly towards him, the picture of attentive devotion. Yet Matthew couldn’t shake the image of Joe’s fleeting panic in the restaurant, the perfectly sculpted grief that followed. Conrad Peyton. Jake Ryan. The sheer, chilling symmetry was a discordant note beneath the elevator’s hum. He leaned his head back against the cool metal wall, closing his eyes. Stop it. Just… stop.
The familiar click of his apartment door unlocking felt like crossing a threshold into another world. Warmth, soft lamplight, the faint scent of the bergamot candle he’d lit that morning – it enveloped them, pushing the cold dread and the city’s sharp edges further away. Joe immediately shrugged off his coat, draping it neatly over the back of a chair, his movements fluid, practiced. "God, it’s good to be in," he sighed, turning to Matthew with a soft smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. He stepped close, his hands finding Matthew’s waist. "You okay? That Chris thing… it was a gut punch, out of nowhere."
Matthew met his gaze, searching those deep brown eyes for any flicker of deception, finding only apparent concern and the lingering sadness Joe had shown Chris. The apartment's quiet intimacy worked its spell. The sharp edges of his suspicion began to soften, blurring under the weight of the long day, the sake, the sheer magnetic pull of Joe’s presence. He leaned into the touch, the solidity of Joe against him a physical counterpoint to the nebulous fear. "Yeah," he breathed, resting his forehead against Joe’s. "Just… yeah. Unsettling. Hearing about Conrad like that." He chose the word carefully. Unsettling. Not suspicious. Don’t go there.
Joe’s arms slid around him, pulling him into a full embrace, tight and reassuring. "I know," he murmured against Matthew’s temple, his breath warm. "I hated him seeing me like that. Hated dragging that darkness anywhere near you." He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into Matthew’s eyes, his thumb brushing Matthew’s cheekbone. "You’re the light, Matthew. You chased those shadows away." The intensity in his gaze was almost overwhelming, a fervent declaration. "Let me just… be here with you. Please? Forget Chris. Forget Jake. Forget everything that isn't us, right now."
The plea was raw, vulnerable, cutting through Matthew’s remaining resistance. The doubts about Jake’s abrupt "trip," the chilling parallels with Conrad – they felt abstract, distant ghosts against the living, breathing warmth of the man holding him. The need to believe, to sink into the comfort Joe offered, became a tangible ache. He nodded, a slow surrender, his hands lifting to frame Joe’s face. "Okay," he whispered, his voice thick. "Just us."
Joe’s answering kiss was different this time. Not the claiming intensity of the previous night, nor the practiced charm of earlier dates. It was soft, searching, tender. A slow exploration that spoke of reverence, not hunger. It felt like devotion made physical. Matthew responded in kind, letting himself be drawn deeper, the kiss a balm on his frayed nerves. He consciously pushed the questions, the echoes, the cold dread, into a dark corner of his mind. Lock it away. Just feel this.
They moved towards the bedroom, shedding clothes not in a frantic rush but in a slow, almost ritualistic unveiling. Fingers traced skin with newfound care – the curve of a shoulder, the dip of a collarbone, the faint scar on Matthew’s ribs from a childhood fall Joe hadn't known about until now. Each touch was a silent conversation, a reaffirmation. The soft linen sheets were cool against Matthew’s back as Joe followed him down, covering him not just with his body but with a palpable sense of protective focus. "Matthew," Joe breathed against his neck, the name a sigh filled with something that felt terrifyingly close to awe. "God, you’re…" He didn’t finish, instead conveying it with the slow, deliberate glide of his hand down Matthew’s flank, the press of his lips against Matthew’s pulse point.
Matthew arched into the touch, a low sound escaping him. He wrapped his arms around Joe, pulling him closer, burying his face in the crook of Joe’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent mixed with the faint, clean smell of his own soap from Joe’s skin. This tenderness, this unhurried intimacy, felt like a lifeline. He focused solely on the sensations: the rasp of stubble against his cheek, the warmth radiating from Joe’s skin, the building heat pooling low in his belly. Jake, Conrad, Rossi, the Ambassador – they dissolved into irrelevant noise. There was only this breath, this touch, the slow, deep rhythm Joe established, a rhythm that felt less like possession and more like an offering. He let himself be lost in it, a willing surrender to the shelter Joe provided.
Joe moved above him, within him, with a profound gentleness that felt almost reverent. He watched Matthew’s face in the dim light filtering through the blinds, every flicker of pleasure, every soft gasp, cataloged and cherished. He kissed Matthew slowly, deeply, pouring every ounce of the carefully constructed devotion he could muster into it. He’s mine. He feels it. He believes it. But as Matthew’s eyes drifted shut, his expression softening into unguarded bliss as he whispered Joe’s name, a cold sliver of terror pierced Joe’s heart. Chris Miller’s earnest, probing face flashed in his mind. Conrad’s terrified eyes, wide in the split second before everything went dark. The weight of Jake’s body in the trunk. The constant, low thrum of vigilance required to maintain Jake’s digital ghost-life.
The tenderness, the connection he felt with Matthew now, was the deepest he’d ever known, the most real. Yet it felt impossibly fragile. Like smoke. Chris finding him was no coincidence; it was a crack in the foundation. Rossi was circling Jake. How long before someone else from the past crawled out of the woodwork? San Francisco felt dangerously close tonight. Matthew was letting go, trusting him completely in this moment, but Joe knew that trust was tissue-paper thin. The ghosts weren’t confined to the past; they were walking the streets of New York, asking questions, stirring doubts. He buried his face against Matthew’s shoulder, holding him tighter as a wave of desperate possessiveness warred with the chilling certainty: I’m losing him. Even now, wrapped around him, I can feel him slipping away. The ghosts are coming. They always come. And they’ll take him.