Chapter 21: San Francisco
The scent of burnt coffee grounds and damp paper hung thick in the empty bookstore. Joe leaned against the cold glass of the front door, the CLOSED sign swinging slightly. Outside, rain slicked the Manhattan streets, reflecting fractured neon. Matthew’s text glowed accusingly on his phone screen: Swamped tonight. Emergency briefing. Raincheck? Xx.
A lie. A clumsy, insulting lie. Joe knew. He’d seen. From the shadowed doorway across from the Ambassador’s residence, he’d watched Matthew hurry inside, jacket collar turned up against the drizzle, not a briefcase in sight. Not heading to the UN. Heading to him. To Tony.
The rage was a physical thing, a pressure cooker building steam behind his ribs. It vibrated in his clenched jaw, pulsed behind his eyes. He squeezed the phone until the plastic creaked. Swamped. Like Joe was some naive fool, some easily dismissed distraction. Like Tony fucking Fitzpatrick wasn’t systematically dismantling everything Joe had built with Matthew.
He stumbled back into the dimness of the shop, the familiar scent of old paper suddenly cloying, suffocating. He needed air, but the rain lashed against the windows. Trapped. Just like before.
The memory hit him like a physical blow, sharp and sudden, transporting him instantly from the damp gloom of New York to the bright, deceptive chill of San Francisco two years prior. Golden Gate Park, sunlight dappling through eucalyptus trees. Conrad Peyton, laughing, tossing a frisbee for a borrowed dog. Medical student. Bright future. Radiant smile that made Joe feel, for the first time in years, truly seen. Understood.
Conrad had been perfect. Attentive. Needy in just the right way. Joe remembered bringing him coffee during late-night study sessions at UCSF library, Conrad’s grateful sigh, the way his fingers brushed Joe’s as he took the cup. "You always know," Conrad would murmur. Joe did know. He knew Conrad’s coffee order (double shot, oat milk, extra hot), his favorite Thai place (the one on Clement with the sticky rice), the exact pressure point at the base of his skull that melted his stress away. He knew Conrad’s schedule, his friends, his anxieties about his surgical rotation. He knew everything. Because he cared. Deeply. Protectively.
But then… the shift. Subtle at first. Conrad cancelling their Friday movie nights. "Just exhausted, Joe. This rotation is brutal." Texts going unanswered for hours. That distracted look in his eyes, even when they were together. Joe remembered the tightening in his own chest, the first flicker of suspicion. He’d asked, gently. "Everything okay? You seem… distant."
Conrad had forced a smile, rubbing his temples. "Just med school, babe. Crushing my soul. Need more sleep, that's all."
Joe had believed him. Wanted to believe him. He doubled down. Surprise lunches delivered to the hospital. More back rubs. Planning elaborate weekend getaways to Mendocino Conrad kept postponing. He was drowning Conrad in affection, trying to plug the leak he sensed but couldn't see. Conrad started flinching away from casual touches. His phone became glued to his hand, screen angled away.
The gym bag. That was the first concrete clue. Conrad started going to a different gym. "Closer to the hospital," he'd said. But Joe knew Conrad’s routines. Knew he hated changing facilities. Why switch? Joe followed him once. Not inside, just watched him enter the sleek, modern building downtown. Saw him emerge an hour later, flushed, chatting animatedly with a man. Tall. Muscular. Dark hair buzzed short. Laughing too easily. Mike Chang. Joe found his name later, through Conrad’s neglected laptop left open. Facebook. Tech worker. Status: Single. Photos at the same gym. Smiling with Conrad in one Joe hadn't seen before, arms slung casually over each other’s shoulders after what looked like a basketball game.
The discovery was ice water in Joe’s veins. Followed by white-hot fury. He’d planned the confrontation meticulously. Conrad was coming over for dinner. Joe would be calm. Reasonable. Show Conrad the evidence. Make him see the betrayal. Make him understand the pain. Make him choose. Joe had the photos ready on his tablet. He’d cooked Conrad’s favorite pasta.
Conrad arrived late. Didn’t touch the food. Stood awkwardly in the kitchen of Joe’s small apartment, the scent of garlic and basil hanging heavy in the air.
"Joe," Conrad started, his voice strained, avoiding Joe’s eyes. "We need to talk."
Joe’s carefully rehearsed speech evaporated. The calm facade cracked. "Yeah? About Mike?"
Conrad flinched, surprised. Then his expression hardened, a defensive mask sliding into place. "You were spying?"
"I was protecting us!" Joe snapped, the rage bubbling up, hot and uncontrollable. "Protecting you! From him! From whatever lie he’s feeding you!"
"It’s not a lie, Joe!" Conrad shot back, his own voice rising. "It’s real. He’s real. He doesn’t… smother me. He doesn’t need to know where I am every second!"
The words were knives. "Smother? Is that what you call caring? Loving you completely?"
"It’s too much!" Conrad yelled, throwing his hands up. "It’s always too much with you! The constant checking in, the ‘surprises’, the fucking… ownership! Mike… Mike just lets me breathe!"
Joe saw red. The pressure cooker exploded. "Breathe? He’s using you! Can’t you see that? He’s just some gym rat looking for—"
"I’m leaving, Joe," Conrad interrupted, his voice suddenly cold, final. "I’m moving in with Mike. Tonight."
The world tilted. "No." The word was a gasp, ripped from Joe’s throat. "No, you can’t. Conrad, please. We can fix this. I can fix this!" He lunged forward, not to hurt, never to hurt Conrad, just to stop him, to hold him, to make him understand. His hands grabbed Conrad’s shoulders.
Conrad jerked back violently, stumbling against the marble countertop edge. "Get OFF me!" he snarled, shoving Joe hard.
Joe stumbled, off-balance, his own momentum carrying him forward. His hand flailed out, catching Conrad’s arm again as Conrad tried to push past him towards the door. A desperate tug. Conrad twisted, trying to break free, his foot catching on the leg of a bar stool. He fell backwards, arms windmilling.
There was a sickening, hollow crack as the back of Conrad’s head connected with the sharp corner of the marble countertop. He crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
Silence. Deafening silence, broken only by Joe’s ragged breathing. He stared, frozen. Conrad lay unnaturally still, eyes wide and unseeing, a dark, viscous pool rapidly spreading beneath his head on the polished concrete floor. The scent of garlic was suddenly overwhelmed by the coppery tang of blood.
"No," Joe whispered, sinking to his knees. "No, no, no… Conrad?" He touched Conrad’s neck. Nothing. Cold. Already cold. "Baby? Wake up. Please." He gathered Conrad’s limp body, rocking slightly, the blood soaking into his jeans. "I didn’t mean… I just… I loved you. I loved you so much." Sobs wracked him, violent and gasping. It was an accident. A terrible, tragic accident. Conrad shouldn’t have pushed him. Shouldn’t have tried to leave.
The grief morphed, twisting into something darker, sharper. Focused. This was Mike’s fault. Mike poisoned him. Mike stole him. Mike made Conrad say those cruel things, made him pull away, made him fall. Mike didn’t deserve to breathe Conrad’s air.
Finding Mike was frighteningly easy. Joe knew his routines too, learned them while watching Conrad. Knew Mike liked late-night coding sessions at that hipster coffee shop near Dolores Park. Knew he walked home alone down the quiet, tree-lined streets of Noe Valley after midnight.
Joe waited in the shadowed doorway of a Victorian, rain misting down, just like tonight. Mike walked past, earbuds in, humming, oblivious. Happy. While Conrad was… gone. Joe moved silently, a wraith in the damp night. A heavy wrench, lifted from a construction site days before, felt cold and solid in his pocket. Necessary. Protection. Justice.
"Mike," Joe called out, his voice surprisingly calm.
Mike turned, startled, pulling out an earbud. Recognition flickered, then confusion. "Joe? Conrad's Joe? What are you—"
The wrench swung in a short, brutal arc. It connected with Mike’s temple with a wet thud. Mike dropped instantly, crumpling onto the wet sidewalk. Joe stood over him for a moment, breathing hard, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead. He dragged the body into the bushes bordering a darkened house. Quick. Efficient. He wiped the wrench clean on Mike’s jacket and tossed it into a storm drain. Gone. Like Conrad. Like the life Joe had built as "Will" in San Francisco. Vanished.
Back in the New York bookstore, Joe gasped, jerking upright as if electrocuted. The phantom scent of San Francisco eucalyptus and wet pavement vanished, replaced by stale coffee and dust. Rain still streaked the windows. His hands trembled violently. He looked down at them, half-expecting to see blood.
Matthew was pulling away. Just like Conrad. Lying. Choosing him. Tony Fitzpatrick. Smug. Powerful. Stealing what was Joe’s. The same suffocating panic, the same desperate rage, flooded him anew, hotter and more terrifying because he knew its power. Knew where it could lead.
He couldn’t lose Matthew. He wouldn’t. Matthew needed him. Needed protecting. From Tony. From his own poor judgment. From the world that would chew him up and spit him out.
Joe’s breathing slowed, deepened. The trembling stopped. A chilling clarity settled over him, cold and absolute. He picked up his phone again, Matthew’s lie still glowing. His thumb hovered over the screen. Then, with deliberate calm, he typed a new message, his expression hardening into grim resolve.
No problem at all, love. Long day? Hope the briefing wasn’t too brutal. Get some rest. Miss you. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Xx
He hit send. The lie echoed in the silent shop. He pocketed the phone and walked towards the back room, towards the cluttered desk where maps of New York were pinned to the wall, cryptic symbols marking routes, routines, vulnerabilities. His fingers traced a familiar path across the Upper East Side, stopping near a specific landmark. The Ambassador’s residence.
He picked up a red marker. Drew a slow, deliberate circle around it. The pressure cooker hissed softly inside him, contained now, focused. History wouldn’t repeat itself. Not this time. He knew what needed to be done. For Matthew. For their future. Tony Fitzpatrick was just another obstacle. Another Mike. And Joe knew exactly how to remove obstacles.
The red marker bled onto the map as Joe circled Tony's residence, the pressure cooker inside him now a focused, humming engine. Removing obstacles. He knew the playbook. Conrad. Mike. Necessary corrections for disloyalty. This was different, though. Matthew wasn'tt disloyal yet; he was being poisoned. Manipulated by power and position. By him.
Joe needed leverage. Real leverage. Proof. He needed to rip the mask off Tony Fitzpatrick and show Matthew the predator beneath the polished Ambassador. He pocketed the marker, the scent of ink joining the stale coffee in the air. Action, not rage. Protect Matthew. Save him.
His eyes scanned the cluttered back room – maps, half-written manuscripts, the old laptop humming softly on the desk. Matthew's State Department laptop. Abandoned carelessly last week during a rushed coffee date, forgotten under a stack of The New Yorker magazines. "Remind me to grab that later, love," Matthew had called over his shoulder, already halfway out the door to some diplomatic fire drill. Lazy. Trusting. Vulnerable.
Joe pulled the sleek, government-issued machine towards him. Matthew's password? Child’s play. ‘Dublin88’ – his first overseas post and birth year, scribbled on a Post-it months ago. Joe powered it on, the blue glow illuminating his face in the dark bookstore. The login screen appeared. He typed. Access Granted.
He cracked his knuckles, a faint smile touching his lips. Time to go digging. He bypassed the clunky State Department VPN Matthew used – too slow, too traceable. Joe launched Tor, routed through multiple nodes, layering his digital presence like armor. He navigated the labyrinthine State intranet, exploiting backdoors Matthew wouldn't even know existed. His fingers flew over the keys, a quiet, rhythmic tapping against the silence.
The personnel files directory. Restricted. Encrypted. Joe deployed a brute-force algorithm he’d modified years ago, something he kept for rainy days. Or nights like this. He sipped cold coffee from a chipped mug, watching the progress bar crawl. Patience was part of the hunt. The hum of the laptop fan was the only sound. He navigated directly to Tony Fitzpatrick’s senior personnel jacket. Official bio, commendations, assignments – sanitized and dull. The real treasure trove was deeper: subordinate assignments and related personnel actions. Joe drilled down, cross-referencing names with internal investigation logs. He constructed a complex search query: Fitzpatrick, T. + Subordinate + Male + Age < 40 + Personnel Investigation Initiated + Case Closed: No Findings/Unsubstantiated + Reassignment.
Hundreds of results flooded the screen initially. Joe refined, narrowed, focused. He filtered for the past ten years, Tony’s tenure climbing the ranks. Names began to surface. Young men. Attendants. Junior Attachés. Special Assistants. Always described as "promising."
He opened the first investigation file: "Allegation: Inappropriate Conduct, Unwanted Advances." Filed internally. Investigator notes: "Complainant (Male, 28, Asst. Cultural Attaché) expressed discomfort regarding Ambassador Fitzpatrick's 'overly familiar' comments and 'persistent invitations' to private dinners. Complainant withdrew allegation prior to formal interview. Case closed. No findings. Complainant reassigned to Nairobi desk."
Joe clicked the next. "Allegation: Harassment." Complainant: Male, 31, Political Officer. Notes: "Complainant reported feeling pressured by Ambassador Fitzpatrick during late-night work sessions at residence. Cited 'uncomfortable physical proximity' and 'suggestive remarks' regarding career advancement. Complainant declined to provide specifics or participate further. Expressed desire to 'move on.' Case closed unsubstantiated. Complainant reassigned to Embassy Oslo."
Another. And another. "Unwanted attention." "Pressure to socialize privately." "Suggestive comments." Case after case closed with no findings, the official language sterile and dismissive. Unsubstantiated. Withdrawn. Insufficient evidence. And always, within weeks, the reassignment. Jakarta. Geneva. Pretoria. Far from Tony Fitzpatrick’s orbit.
"Jesus," Joe muttered, scrolling faster. The pattern wasn't just emerging; it was screaming. A trail of silenced young men, shunted aside, their careers subtly derailed. Fitzpatrick played the long game. Used his power, his position, his charm. Made them feel special, then trapped. Made them too scared to talk, or offered them a quiet exit. Swept it under the diplomatic rug. Classic predator behavior.
The pieces slammed together with satisfying, horrifying clarity. This was how Tony operated. This was what he was doing to Matthew right now. The late-night "briefings." The private apartment. Matthew wasn't just having an affair; he was being groomed. Lured in. And when Tony tired, or when Matthew inevitably became inconvenient? He'd be the next name on this list. Reassigned to Ulaanbaatar, his reputation quietly tarnished, his spirit broken.
Joe leaned back, the blue light of the screen reflecting the fierce triumph in his eyes. He had it. The undeniable proof. Not just of infidelity, but of systemic abuse. Fitzpatrick wasn't just stealing Matthew; he was destroying him slowly. Joe felt no rage now, only cold, righteous purpose. This changed everything.
He meticulously copied the files, encrypting them onto a hidden partition of an old external drive. He scrubbed his digital tracks from Matthew’s laptop, leaving no trace of his incursion. Dawn was bleeding grey light through the bookstore windows when he finally shut the laptop down, the scent of approaching rain replacing the stale coffee.
He had the weapon. Matthew wouldn't believe accusations. But evidence? A pattern spanning years? He’d have no choice. Joe smiled, a thin, determined curve of his lips. He’d expose Tony Fitzpatrick. Publicly. Destroy him. And Matthew, finally seeing the truth, would run straight into the arms of the man who truly loved him. The man who protected him.
His fingers hovered over his personal laptop. First step: find a way to leak it. Anonymously, of course. To the right hungry journalist. He opened a new incognito window, the cursor blinking in the search bar.