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indecentpause · 3 years

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The Most Beautiful Puzzle: Chapter One

I did already share this via gdocs, but I thought I’d go ahead and throw it up here too for easy reading and reblogging. :)

cw: murder, violence, drug reference, dead body/decaying corpse, stalking, mentions of domestic abuse, swearing, mental illness (ADHD, depression, anxiety), psychiatric medication, past injury due to domestic violence (still healing), neuroses about food and eating

Puzzle taglist: @ohsugarfoot @abalonetea @only-book-lovers-left-alive @poore-choice-of-words @leadhelmetcosmonaut @jasperygrace @drippingmoon @writtendevastation @viskafrer

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist for future chapters, excerpts, moodboards, and other such updates!

Meara’s life has been one disappointment after another, and he’s not expecting his new roommate situation to be anything but, either. But he needs to get out of the city and needs a room, and Josselin seems nice enough and has a bed to spare.

But Josselin ends up being more than just a freelance translator, eccentric book hoarder, and taxidermy enthusiast, he’s also a consulting detective the one the police come to when they just can’t crack a case. Meara accidentally gets swooped up in one such situation.

It’s the most excitement and fun he’s ever had in his entire life. He’s hooked. (A Sherlock Holmes AU of Sheraton Academy.)

This is getting absolutely ridiculous.

Meara, you’ve been to this stupid community board multiple times this week, and it’s not surprising that you’re tired.

But then, it’s not your fault all the housing ads are written by weirdos and creeps, either.

Last one. Last one, and if this doesn’t work out, you’re going to move into Danny’s family’s basement and become a hermit and only do online courses and never go outside again.

The paper is a little crumpled, and it’s handwritten, which is new. All the old ones had been typed. There’s a tiny black and white photo of three cats on the bottom.

Josselin Clearwater, looking for single roommate for two bedroom apartment. Must be okay with cats. Any gender is fine. Must be over 21. No anti-maskers. $500/mo, utilities/internet included.

Underneath is a phone number.

You sigh and pull the paper off the board, ripping it where the pin was stuck in. You like cats, and from what you can make out of the grainy picture, they seem to all be snuggled together in a pile, which means they’re at least socialized with each other.

Your palm is sweaty when you grab your phone from your pocket. For a while, you stare at the blank screen, unsure of whether you should even keep trying. But then a text notification pops up, and it’s Danny, your best friend since you were five, and it says,

Keep an eye out. Your creepy ex came to my job to ask about you. I didn’t say anything. Be safe and call if you need me.

You swipe the message up and make the call. At this point, you’re desperate, and any roommate away from your hometown is better than going back.

Josselin could be any gender. It’s the masculine spelling of the name, at least, you think? But who knows. Doesn’t matter. As long as they let you study and don’t care about your ADHD or if you’re gay, it’s fine. Your depression’s pretty much under control with meds, so they don’t even need to know.

The phone rings, and rings, and rings. With every additional ring, you wilt a little. You could leave a message, you guess, but you don’t know them! It’s weird!

Okay, okay, just be polite and you’ll be fine.

Then, the phone clicks, and for a moment you think you’ve been disconnected, but you haven’t. A soft, slightly nasal voice answers, kind of androgynous but most likely male.

“Hello?”

You freeze.

“Hello?” they ask again.

“Uh, hi!” You snap back and close your eyes. “I’m looking for Josselin Clearwater?”

“Speaking.” A clanging in the background, a muttered curse, a “Familiar, get out of the trash!”

“Sorry,” they say. “Cats, you know.”

“Uh, sure, I guess. My name’s Meara Ryanne, and I was calling about your ad you left on the pinboard at Cafe Diem. I wanted to meet with you so we can see if we like each other and I can take the room?”

“Oh, yeah, of course!” They seem a little distracted, but maybe their cat is just in the trash again. “I’m actually free the rest of today, if you are.”

Your back straightens and you grin. Thank god.

“Yeah!” You fiddle with the crumpled paper with your left hand, phone already getting hot in your right. You’re going to need a new phone soon, before this one explodes or something. “Uh, just one question, first, if that’s okay?”

A pause. “What?”

It’s direct, but doesn’t sound annoyed.

“Sorry, um, I don’t mean any offense, but I like to ask everyone, what are your pronouns?”

“He and him,” Josselin says, then again, a sharp, “Familiar!”

“Okay,” you say, because he answers it totally calmly, no annoyance or offense taken, so that’s a good sign. “Me too,” you offer.

“Okay!” he says. “Are you at Cafe Diem now, or…?”

You turn around. “Looking at the menu as we speak.”

“Neat!” Josselin grins. ‘Neat’? Who says ‘neat’? “I live pretty close, so I can be there in… maybe fifteen minutes?”

A wave of relief washes over you and you pull out a wooden chair to sit at one of the empty tables. “Sounds good,” you say.

“Okay! Bye!” And he hangs up, just like that. No small talk. Okay, well, that’s fine. You’ve always tended to talk a lot, but you can be quiet when you need to.

You slide your phone back in your pocket and glance up at the handwritten chalkboard menu behind the counter. So many tasty things, coffees and teas and agua frescas. A quick glance at the time on your phone tells you it’s almost four.

Footsteps, sneakers squeaking on tile. You look up when they stop in front of you, shocked, because how can he be here already? But, no, it’s one of the baristas, Josephine.

“Hey, Meara,” she says. You can’t see her mouth behind her mask, but her brown eyes crinkle in a smile. “I know you’ve been coming in a lot and that’s fine, and I guess you just didn’t know, but right now we’re not allowed to have sit down customers. You’re cool if you want to sit in our outside seating though, as long as you keep up the social distancing!”

You grab your phone and only fumble a little. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry, Josephine,” you fumble. “I totally spaced. This covid thing’s taken a lot of getting used to.”

“No worries!” she chirps. “We appreciate that you wear a mask and actually use our hand sanitizer. You’d be surprised at how gross people can be.”

You don’t think you would, but you don’t say so. You offer her a nod and say, “Okay, I’ll order a tea and then hang out outside. I’m meeting someone in about fifteen minutes, is that okay?”

Josephine gives you a thumbs up. “Absolutely.”

As she heads back to her space behind the counter, you push yourself up to your feet. You have to lift your left foot and circle your ankle again, and you hiss softly as you put your weight back on it. It’s mostly healed, now. It only hurts when you first get up. A tentative step to make sure, then you follow Josephine up to the counter, back to normal.

Hopefully that’s a good omen for things to come.

---

It. Is. Hot.

Iced green tea was a good choice. The outside table is behind a little iron fence, so people are far enough away you can even keep your mask off while you drink. You don’t really look at anyone or anything, you just kind of zone out and enjoy the cold drink.

The fence creaks, and you jump and whirl. A man about your age, somewhere in his mid-twenties, maybe? steps through the open gate. You slip your mask back up as he turns to you after closing the gate behind him.

“Hey, Meara,” the man says, like you’ve been best friends for years. Your shoulders tense and you grip the plastic cup a little tighter.

“What?”

“Meara Ryanne, right?” he says. “I’m Josselin.” He gestures at the seat across from you and asks, “Can I sit?”

His mask is absolutely ridiculous, bright pink with a plague doctor in the center, and his black hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. Part of it has come undone and falls over his shoulder.

“Uh, yeah,” you sputter, and he does.

“How did you--?”

He interrupts you. “You’re the only person out here, and I know inside seats aren’t allowed right now, so you have to be, right?”

“Yeah,” you sputter again. You gesture at the cafe window. “Do you want to--”

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” he says. He pulls a huge, bright blue and pink can out of his messenger bag. You can’t see the label but based on the coloring it has to be an energy drink.

It’s four in the afternoon. Who drinks energy drinks at four in the afternoon?

He pops the tab open and lowers his mask just long enough to take a swig. Even from here you can smell the fake cotton candy. As he moves, you can see a black smudge on the inside of his wrist, a penned note or something. He puts the can down on the glass table a little too roughly and tilts his head to the side, squinting at you.

“So, the room--” you start, but he interrupts.

“ADHD or autism?” he asks.

You freeze.

“What?” You stammer as it comes out.

Josselin straightens his neck and brightens. “Or are you comorbid? I’m comorbid.”

“ADHD,” you have to murmur, because he just sat down and you’ve barely said a word, so how could he know? “How--?” you start to ask, but he interrupts again.

“You’ve got a spinner ring on your left pointer finger and you’ve been tapping it against your cup and your straw has bite marks, probably stimming, yeah?” He leans to the side and gestures to your pocket. “And you’ve got a fidget cube in there, right? I can see the outline under the fabric. Most neurotypical people don’t carry more than one stim toy on them at a time, if any at all.”

Your face goes cold and your heart drops to your stomach.

What. The. Fuck.

Your face hardens and he seems to realize he’s made a mis-step.

“Is this some kind of prank? Did Danny put you up to this?”

Josselin’s hand slides away from the can on the table and to the corner, instead. “Friend or brother?”

“Answer the question,” you snap.

He shrinks back in the wrought iron chair a little and his brow furrows. “No, I, nobody put me up to anything, I was just, I just need someone to take the spare room and nobody could last with me longer than a month and--”

“Wonder why,” you mutter. A hurt look strikes his face and he drops his hands into his lap.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. His voice is shaky. “I put us off to a really bad start. Can I try again?”

And with everything that everyone in your life has done to you over the past six months, you should say no, but you need a roommate, and Josselin doesn’t appear to be dangerous, just… incredibly weird. But you can deal with weird.

Your shoulders relax a little, and you smile behind your mask.

“Yeah,” you say gently, because you were just like him when you were a teenager, and even though you’re both adults, you know how hard it is not to fit in. “Sure. My name’s Meara and I’m looking for a roommate. You?”

You can only see the top half of Josselin’s face, but you can tell by his eyes that he’s smiling.

“I’m Josselin, and I’m also looking for a roommate. I have a spare room. Do you like cats?”

---

For a while, you just talk, but even though Josselin is nice, if awkward, something’s been nagging at you this whole conversation, and finally, you have to ask:

“Josselin?”

He pauses his ramble and takes another slug of his energy drink. “Mm?” he asks around the liquid in his mouth.

“You said you were comorbid. When you asked me about my stimming. What did you mean?”

“Oh!” He puts down his can and leans forward, just barely staying at six feet apart. "I'm both, I mean. ADHD and autistic. Both diagnosed when I was young.” He pauses and hurries to add, “Not that adult diagnoses are less important or valid! I’ve just known for a long time. That’s all I mean.”

You nod. He makes a lot more sense now, now that you can relate to him in terms you understand. “Another question?” you ask.

He nods.

“How the hell did you notice all those little bits and pieces? It was a little scary initially but now it’s mostly impressive. Where did you learn that?”

“Oh, I, uh, I didn’t,” he says. “Learn it, I mean. It’s just something I’ve always done. Pay attention to little details. I just… see them. My brain puts things that look random together and comes to the--usually correct--conclusion. I don’t know. Everyone has their thing.” He pauses, takes another drink, pulls his mask back up over his nose and mouth. “Speaking of things, I have some stuff around the apartment that’s a little weird? Nothing illegal!”

You stare at him, long and slow. His eyes are on your chin.

“What?” you finally ask.

“No, like, I have some kind of uncommon stuff around, but nothing illegal. Like. I have all my pets taxidermied when they go down, for example.”

Your shoulders relax.

“Oh, well, it might take some getting used to, but that’s fine. You don’t have… hunting trophies or anything though, right?” Because that would be a dealbreaker.

He shakes his head. “No, no.” The table starts to wobble a little and you realize he’s bouncing his knee underneath it. It probably wouldn’t spill, but you pick up your cup anyway. “Just pets I still love and couldn’t bring myself to bury.”

You nod.

He tells you about his living cats (Familiar, Grandpa, and Crackerjack), and the building, and the fact that the washer and dryer in the basement are always broken, so you’ll have to use the laundromat on the corner, but that’s okay, because the family who owns it is super nice, and he has a cart you can borrow if you need one. There’s a parking space he can’t use that you can have if you need it. Like his ad said, $500 a month, everything but groceries included. He’s a vegetarian. So are you, so that’s not a problem. He talks and talks and talks, and you can’t bring yourself to interrupt him, because he looks so happy and excited, and everyone always interrupts you, and you don’t want to hurt him like that. Even if you did just meet, he’s probably going to be your roommate if the apartment checks out, so you want to start off on the right foot. Even if it is the second attempt.

“What about you?” he asks.

You pause, trying to backtrack in the conversation, to figure out which thing he’s asking about.

“What about me, what?”

“Do you have any pets you’d want to bring? Because I wouldn’t want a rodent or a bird around just because the cats would stress them out so much, and maybe hurt them, and that would be terrible, and I can’t keep an eye on them when I’m not at home.”

You shake your head. “No, no pets.”

He chugs the last of his drink and replaces his mask, then tosses the can toward the trash bin. He misses. You can’t help but chuckle, and you can tell by the crinkles around his eyes that he’s grinning.

As he picks it up and throws it away, you push yourself up, and a sharp pain shoots through your ankle. Ugh, this ankle is going to be the death of you in the winter if it doesn’t heal right.

Josselin turns back to you, hands still in the air from tossing the can away. His eyes dart up and down, just once, and his brow furrows.

“Do you want to take your car, then?”

“How do you know I have a car?”

“Well, you sure didn’t walk here, with that foot. And your keys are clipped to your messenger bag.”

You smile. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.”

He pauses, and asks, “Are you or were you ever Covid positive?”

“No,” you say, and you’re surprised at yourself for not asking as soon as he sat down, but he’d taken you so off guard. “You?”

“No. And I generally work from home. You?”

“I rarely go outside, except for situations like this and groceries. I’m out of work right now. I was a paramedic for a long time but they couldn’t get us the proper PPE and my team kept getting sick, and I knew it was only a matter of time for me if I stayed. I’m looking for something I can do, though.”

Josselin’s eyes narrow as he frowns. “Then how will you pay rent?”

“I’ve got enough saved up for about five months. I’ve been really careful with my money.”

“What kind of jobs are you looking into?” he asks.

You lean your hip against the table to take the weight off your ankle, just a little. “I’m open to anything that’ll take me, right now,” you say. “But I actually really like customer service, cashier, phones, whatever. I know it’s shit for most people but I just… love being able to help. Either that or working with plants somehow. Something a little less important than life and death.”

Josselin’s eyes shift from a frown to a smile. “I know some people in the area. If you take the room I’ll help you look around.”

You smile back. “Thanks.”

Your car is parked just behind the cafe. Josselin keeps his pace slow, probably because of your ankle, but when you say, “No, really, it’s fine, it only hurts when I first stand up,” he looks at you thoughtfully and hmms, but says nothing. He does, however, speed up a little.

He gets into the backseat for some reason, which is a little weird, but that’s fine, probably. You pull your hand sanitizer out of the glovebox before you touch anything, and when you hold it up, Josselin holds out his hand and you squirt some into his, too.

As you adjust the rearview mirror, your gaze flicks over to the paperclip on your sun visor where the picture of you and your ex used to be, before things went to shit and he started getting violent. It hurts, still, knowing you meant that little to someone you loved once. You frown, pull the paperclip down, and toss it to the floor in front of the passenger’s seat.

“Okay?” Josselin asks.

“Fine,” you say, a little too tersely, and you start the car.

After you pull out into the street, you say, gently, “Sorry.”

Josselin looks at your reflection in the rearview mirror. “Hm?”

“For snapping at you. I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong and I shouldn’t have done that.”

A long, long, incredibly awkward pause.

“Do you want to keep our masks on?” you finally ask. “Mine’s getting kind of humid and I could use some clean air. Since we’re both negative it should be fine?”

Josselin pulls his mask down below his nose, but keeps his mouth covered. “Thank goodness,” he says. “I didn’t want to ask because it’s your space, and of course I’ll wear my mask when I go out, but sometimes it’s just. Ugh.”

You smile and pull your mask down below your nose. “I know what you mean. But I’m just grateful we aren’t under quarantine anymore.” You snort a little. “Even though I do mostly stay inside anyway.”

“Take a left three lights up,” Josselin suddenly says. “Then a right at the first intersection. My apartment is above the Thai restaurant there. 221B.”

“That’s Baker Street, right?” you ask. Josselin nods and you both fall into a comfortable silence.

You drive where he tells you to, and sure enough, you see it there: JavaThai. But there’s no parking. He’d said--

Josselin pokes his head out between the two front seats and points across your chest. “See that little alley there? If you go through there and behind the building on the left, there’s a little parking area. Some of them are for customers, some are for tenants. They’re marked, you’ll know. Mine’s 2B.”

“How many apartments are there here?” you ask, as you pull into the parking lot. “It looks like it’s mostly businesses.”

“It is,” Josselin says, “but all the spaces above them are apartments. That’s why I’m B, I’m the second floor.”

“Ah.”

You pull into the space and turn the car off. Josselin jumps out of the car, clearly thrilled to be here with you, and he pulls his mask back up over his nose. You do the same.

You’re a little slower, wobbly on your bad ankle, but you recover quickly. When you attach your keys to your bag, you make sure they fall on the inside this time, and you’re very, very aware of how much you want to toy with your spinner ring, when usually it’s just instinct, it doesn’t cross your mind at all.

Josselin pauses near the back door, which leads into a stairwell.

“Can you do stairs?” he asks gently. “I didn’t even think about that. I’m so sorry. We don’t have an elevator.”

“Is there a handrail?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m fine.”

He leads you up the stairs, and as soon as his keys jingle when he pulls them from his pocket, the cacophony of meows from the inside starts. He turns to you with a grin as he unlocks the door.

“They know it’s me because of the pill case on my keys,” he says, jingling them at eye level. “It clacks on the keychain in a certain way the landlord’s keys don’t.”

He pulls his mask the rest of the way off, and so do you.

The apartment is… not exactly a mess, but it’s definitely at least chaotic neutral. The coffee table is covered with everything from coloring books and crayons to DVDs to stuffed animals, and there are pillows and blankets everywhere, all with a dusting of cat hair.The three cats from the picture wind around Josselin’s feet and he crouches down to pet and hug them.

“Feel free to look around,” Josselin says.

By the TV are two taxidermied cats, one fluffy and gray and one short haired and white, one on each side. Above the TV is a shelf with a huge, ridiculously tacky, noticeably empty vase with sunflowers on it, and a small, sharp-toothed skull on either side. Did… he keep the cats’ skulls, too?

Your stomach turns a little, unsettled, but it fades when you hear Josselin, near the door, baby-talking one of the cats. He’s nice. You can tell he’s nice. He’s just eccentric, and hey, when you end up headfirst in a hyperfixation, you can be pretty eccentric, too. You’re no one to judge.

As he settles the cats down, you look at one of the bookshelves that take up most of the wall. A couple of tchotchkes here and there, but the books are what really catch your attention. Eddie Izzard’s autobiography. A number of books on anatomy and physiology. Some very advanced science textbooks. A James Harriot book. At least a dozen books about the Zelda games, from game guides to histories to biographies of the creators to art books. Something called ‘The Cinderella Complex’. A bunch of violin sheet music. Tons of things that could be fiction or nonfiction, you don’t know, because you’ve never even heard of most of these before.

“Would you like to meet the cats?”

You turn and smile at the flat-faced white and gray cat in his arms.

“This is Grandpa,” he says, “because even as a young cat, he had an old grumpy face. Always let him sniff you before you touch him, even if he knows you, or he will swipe at you.” Josselin opens his arms and Grandpa jumps to the floor. He picks up another cat, black with a little bit of white on her chest.

“This is Familiar. She’s about to turn one, which is why she’s all legs and huge ears.”

Familiar meows, as if she knows you’re talking about her.

“She’s gross because she loves the trash for some reason. I don’t know why. Even when there’s no food scraps she still wants to get in there. I got a lid and put it in a cabinet and got a baby lock but she still figures it out. I love her but she’s stinky and too clever for her own good. She needs a lot of baths, but don’t worry, I know that’s my job.”

Familiar paws at Josselin’s face and his nose wrinkles. He lets her tumble to the ground, then crouches by the gray tabby at his feet.

“This is Crackerjack,” he says, gently stroking her ears. “She’s an ex feral cat, so she’s very loud, but also a little skittish, so if you do move in, just give her space and she’ll come to you when she’s ready. Never try to pick her up unless it’s an emergency. She hates it. I learned that the hard way.” He tugs the collar of his shirt to the side to show a few old claw marks that settled into scars.

You wince. “Oof.”

Josselin smiles and pulls his shirt back into place. “She’s actually really sweet. She just didn’t know me yet.”

For a few awkward moments, the two of you just stand there, looking at each other. Finally, you point at one of the skulls and ask, “So… who’s that?”

Josselin lights up like a Christmas tree. “That’s Mom!”

You blanch. “The skull is… your mom?”

Josselin’s eyes widen for a moment, then he laughs. “Oh, of course, I thought you meant the urn! Sorry. The skulls belong to the two kitties by the TV. The urn in the middle has my mom’s rocks.”

It’s an urn, and now you feel terrible for thinking it’s tacky, even though you didn’t say it aloud.

Josselin stands and gestures you forward. “Here, I’ll show you the kitchen.”

It’s completely different from the living room. It’s spotless. Nothing is out of place, no dishes in the sink.

“I never cook,” Josselin says. “I always order delivery. You’re welcome to anything in here, as long as you wash it when you’re done. The last thing we need is Familiar getting into the dishes, too.”

“That’s fair,” you say. You can’t expect a roommate to clean up after you. You’re an adult, after all.

He leads you back into the living room and points up at one of the ceiling corners. Your gaze follows his finger to a little black box.

“I do have two cameras in here,” he says. “Not in the second bedroom, not in the bathroom. But in here and in my bedroom, because I’ve had roommates steal from me before. It’s nothing against you, or anyone new who comes to visit, it’s just.”

He trails off and you finish. “You want to be safe.”

Josselin nods, a little too hard, a little too long. A stim, maybe? After a few seconds he pauses and shakes his head, as if coming back into himself.

He shows you the second bedroom, reassures you there’s a lock on the door and no cameras. It’s not a huge room, but it’s definitely big enough for one, and there’s even a mattress in the corner already. You point over at it, about to ask, but Josselin says,

“You can move it out if you need to. I have a storage unit. Right now I just use it for guests so they can be more comfortable.”

You worry your lower lip between your teeth. Curl your fingers in and flick them out, rub your thumb against the spinner ring. Josselin hasn’t hidden anything from you. Maybe you’re not friends yet, but you can trust him, at least with vague facts of your life.

“I was actually going to ask if I could use it until I can get one of my own,” you say. “I’ve been living out of a motel for the past two weeks, and it’s getting kind of desperate.” You swallow and he turns to you, eyebrows hiked high. “You don’t have to,” you stumble to add. “I understand if you don’t want me to. I just thought I’d ask, if you’re not using it anyway--”

“Of course.” Josselin smiles warmly. He’s bouncing his leg on the ball of his foot again. “Say no more. Do you need help moving your stuff?”

A wry smile. “I haven’t said I’m taking it yet.”

“But you are,” he says, simple, straightforward, matter of fact. “You said yourself. You’re desperate and I have a bed, and you don’t seem to hate me.”

A laugh bursts from your chest, happy and bright. He frowns, tilts his head.

“You’re right, I don’t,” you grin. “I think you’re pretty okay.”

Josselin nods again, still too adamantly. “Well, I think you’re great.”

Your grin turns a little awkward and confused, but it’s still nice to hear he likes you.

“I can help you get your stuff in tomorrow if you need me to,” Josselin says. “I can’t drive, but I can move boxes and pack!”

You nod and thumb at your ring, and your smile turns a bit more sure again.

“Yeah. I don’t have much,” you say. “A dresser and a table, my clothes and some small electronics, laptop and stuff. A couple of keepsakes. Between us and Danny it should only take one trip.” You chuckle, a little nervous, and rub at your nose. “We might actually only need one car.”

“Okay.” He just glides right over it, continuing with the conversation, and for that, you’re grateful. “How about we sign a lease just for the first month, so we can make sure it’s going to work, and then we’ll go from there?”

“Yeah.”

You both stand there, not looking at each other. You jump when a crash comes from the kitchen.

“Familiar!” Josselin shouts, zooming past you and out of the room. You follow and enter the kitchen to see Josselin wrestling her away from the trash, which has been pulled out from under the sink and knocked over. She holds onto the plastic bin tight, yowling as Josselin tries to pry her paws off. You grab the bin and gently pull it as Josselin finally gets her to let go, and you pick up the paper towel that’s fallen out. It’s just a little crinkled, probably just water. So that’s okay.

Josselin shuts a still yowling Familiar in his bedroom. He sighs as you both move to the living room again.

“She’s going to make me pay for shutting her in there,” Josselin mumbles.

“Do you need help cleaning up?” you ask.

He peers around your shoulder at the little kitchenette. You turn around. It looks like Familiar only pulled that one paper towel out.

“I’m fine,” he says. He leads you to the door, watching your bad ankle.

“Who did that to you?” he suddenly asks.

Your stomach drops to your feet, but hopefully you school your expression quick enough he doesn’t notice.

“Nobody,” you say, as you reach out for the doorknob.

“The same nobody who put that bruise on your wrist?” he pushes.

You swallow and glance down at the healing yellow bruise on your pulse point.

“Nobody,” you repeat, a little firmer.

Josselin opens his mouth to push even further, but you interrupt.

“Thanks for having me over so quickly,” you say. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow around 10:00 to let you know if I need help moving stuff.”

“I--” he begins again.

You gently shut the door behind you and struggle your way back down the stairs. To Josselin’s credit, he doesn’t follow you.

---

You immediately go back to your room at the motel and to your laptop so you can google who the fuck Josselin Clearwater is and if he’s going to murder you in your sleep.

Logically, you know how ridiculous that is. Josselin was really sweet. And it honestly wasn’t him that made you want to do this search, because his personality is just fine.

But the cats, and the urn, and the weird books, and the cameras: all that makes you pause.

He’s probably looking you up right now, too, so, you know. Of course you’re going to google a prospective roommate. Any sane person would these days.

You’re not expecting or even hoping for much. Maybe a facebook or linkedin.

He has neither, and not a twitter or a blog, either. There is a website at the bottom of the page, which you weren’t expecting.

What he does have is dozens and dozens of mentions in articles and academic papers.

Local translator helps historians complete ancient text. Local man helps families find lost pets. Local amateur detective helps police find alleged killer. Local man’s cat saves neighborhood child.

Holy shit. Even his cats have articles written about them.

You skim through the headlines, making mental notes about which ones you want to come back to (which is all of them, honestly), but the first thing you click on is his website, all the way at the bottom of the search results page.

The top of the page is a simple bar with his name and a bust photo beneath of him looking very serious, which doesn’t suit his face. It may be true everyone looks better with a smile, but Josselin definitely does.

You can understand why he’d want to look more professional, though.

It’s a very simple website, clean and streamlined and organized, with mostly text and very little flair. You click around a bit but it’s mostly links to articles and books he’s worked on, at least, until you get to the last link, which is his contact information.

There’s no phone number or address, even a P.O. Box--thank god, you don’t want weirdos showing up or calling in the middle of the night--but there is a little form with a drop down menu that starts with “Reason For Contact.”

Huh.

You click. The first couple are relatively normal: freelance translating, translation assistant, research assistant, sensitivity reader, article and fiction editing.

Then, the last two at the bottom: finding lost things and finding lost people. Interesting.

You spend the next few hours reading through the articles you’ve found, over and over, trying to see if you can figure out who this Josselin Clearwater person really is.

---

When you wake up, it’s to artificial light and you’re still fully clothed, shoes and all, one leg hanging off the bed and your laptop half on your stomach. It’s a little too warm there, so you put it to sleep and flip it over to cool down, then grope around for your phone on the side table.

It’s just past 2:00 AM, and you have twenty seven texts, thirteen discord messages, and five voicemails.

What the actual fuck.

They’ve got to be from your ex; nobody else you know is ridiculous enough to leave all that, and if it were Danny with an emergency and you’d hadn’t answered, he’d have just come and banged on the door until you woke up.

You clean your glasses off on your shirt and open your messages. You only read the first one.

Please come back, I’m so sorry.

“Fuck you,” you whisper, because he wasn’t sorry when he twisted your wrist or almost broke your ankle when you fell down the stairs as he tried to keep you from leaving. He wasn’t sorry when he accused you of cheating, he wasn’t sorry when he tried to control where or how you could work or who you could spend time with or, hell, how you could spend your own money and what and when you could eat.

And he’s not sorry now. He’s sorry he couldn’t get away with it any more.

You screencap everything in case you need it for a restraining order later and mass delete the collection of text messages and block the number they came from. It’s not his; you blocked his number immediately, but he keeps finding people who will let him use their phones.

One text is from Danny, a reply to something you sent earlier.

Sure, I can be there at 9:30.

A little of the tension in your shoulders dissolves. Have your--admittedly minimal--stuff packed by 9:00, load it into your car, check out by 9:30, and Danny follows you over to Josselin’s with the dresser and side table he’s holding onto for you.

Follows you over to your new place.

You block your ex’s new discord screenname, you change yours again, and you go through the voicemails and delete them as quickly as you’re able.

He’ll have to give up eventually, right? You’re worth more than he ever admitted, but you can’t be worth that much. At least, not to him.

The rest of the night is sleepless. You spend it rolling around in bed, occasionally messing around on your phone, almost giving up and making coffee and deciding moving isn’t worth the effort.

By the time 8:30 rolls around and you start packing, you’re vibrating with nerves.

Josselin was nice. He was sincere in his niceness. You could tell. Most people can’t fake that kind of stuff without at least being a little suspect.

But your ex was sincerely nice, too, in the beginning.

You shake your head and gently pat your face and begin packing the few things you have left over from your old life. Your clothes, your meds, all your life paperwork that proves you’re you, a couple of little tchotchkes and cards and other old gifts people you love gave you that you were able to rescue.

You’re packed in ten minutes, everything except your laptop, and Danny’s not going to be here for at least forty.

You blow a raspberry and open youtube on your phone to keep you busy until you can check out.

Finally, at 9:00, you give in and text Danny.

Are you awake? I’m ready early if you are.

About five minutes later, he replies.

Sure! Want me to come over now?

If you can.

Be there in 15.

Not that much earlier, but the closer you get to moving without actually reaching your goal, the faster your heart races and the sweatier your palms get.

Then you realize, you should probably make sure Josselin is ready for you.

Texting seems too… familiar, so you decide to call, even if that might mean waking him up. If he’s reasonable about that kind of thing he’ll probably have the ringer off except for an emergency contact anyway.

When he answers, his voice is just as bright and cheery as yesterday.

“Hi, Meara! Is everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah, fine!” you say. Some of the tension in your shoulders starts to relax. Things are going into motion. It’s happening. “I’m just up a little early and thought, if you were too, I could come over in about twenty minutes? I realize that’s only about fifteen early but--”

“Yeah, sure! Thanks for the warning so I can put the cats away so they don’t get underfoot. I’ll leave the door unlocked, but knock before you come in anyway so I don’t think you’re breaking in.”

You laugh and grin and your face starts to relax along with your shoulders.

“Will do.”

Not long later, you and Danny are in the parking lot behind the Thai restaurant, leaning up against your car and looking up at Josselin’s apartment. It’s hot, but your breath still fogs up your glasses from behind your mask. Once Danny and Josselin are comfortable they’re both safe, you’ll take it off, but if they have to wear theirs, it’s only fair you wear yours, too.

“You’ve got a good feeling about this one?” Danny says, for probably the millionth time.

You nod. “Like I said, he’s a little weird, but, well, I think I could use a little weird. I’m a little weird, too. And he seems to work with the police a lot so if, god forbid, something happens, he probably has connections and can help me get things taken care of.”

Danny raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment.

“I still think you should get a restraining order. Then he can’t text or call you either.”

You bite your lip and sigh. “I know, but… I feel like that would make him even more insistent, you know? Like. He might try to find me. And Josselin or his cats or any of his friends or family who might come over could get hurt, or you could get hurt, or--”

“Or you could get hurt,” Danny adds gently.

You exhale, slow and long through pursed lips.

“I’ll think about it,” you say, and you open the back door of your car and grab the top box.

Getting up the stairs without the handrail is not easy. You have to sort of maneuver yourself so your hip leans against it to offer support on your bad side, and Danny must notice as he comes up behind you, because he calls over your shoulder, “Hey, if you need to stay up here, that’s okay. I can run stuff up the stairs.”

You don’t want to. You know he means it and that it’s not an issue or he wouldn’t have offered. But you still feel bad.

“Let’s get this up there and see.”

When you get to the door, you lean your shoulder against it and rap it with your knuckles. You’re barely able to stand back up by the time Josselin gets to the door.

“Hey!” he says. Today his mask is purple with a ghost Pokemon pattern on it. “The cats are closed in the bathroom so we can leave the door open until you get all your stuff in.” He takes your box without asking and says, “What’s in here?” He pauses, as if realizing that might be invasive, and rephrases, “Where do you want me to put it, I mean?”

“Closet’s fine,” you say. “It’s just clothes.”

Danny gently nudges you forward to follow Josselin as Josselin leads you to your new room. They put their boxes down in the corner, and Danny helps you figure out where your dresser and side table are going to go, so you can just bring them and drop them.

Josselin keeps looking at your foot, and you hate it.

A little belatedly, Danny offers Josselin a handshake and says, “I’m Danny, by the way. Sorry to just barge in unannounced.”

“No, no, you’re fine!” Josselin grins. He shakes Danny’s hand but doesn’t make eye contact, his eyes on Danny’s jaw. Danny either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care (probably both, he’s used to you not making eye contact), because he doesn’t say anything about it.

What he says instead is, “Can you help me bring up a dresser? It’s not too heavy, but I don’t want Meara messing his ankle up even more.”

You frown and open your mouth to protest, but you stop when Josselin turns to you with a gentle smile.

“I think that’s a good idea,” he says. “We can bring you your stuff while you unpack.”

“There’s not much,” you mumble, embarrassed. “Just the table, the dresser, and two more small boxes. And my laptop.”

“Okay.” Josselin’s voice gentles and he reaches out as if he’s going to pat your shoulder, but then seems to reconsider and pulls his hand back again.

He and Danny leave the door open behind them, and you sit down on the bed to open your boxes, and you stay there, because there’s nowhere to put your things yet. You’ll have to get a bookshelf. The downtown library is phenomenal, but you miss being able to mark up your own books. Maybe you can hit a thrift store or used bookstore once this Covid stuff calms down. Josselin seems like someone who’d be into that, judging by his library. It might be too much to hope you can be real friends rather than just roommate friends, but maybe it can be a bonding activity.

The dresser comes up next, then the table, and between the three of you, you get unpacked and put away in about a half hour. You’re all breathing hot through your masks, not breathless but definitely not comfortable, and you say, “Danny and Josselin, you’re both Covid negative, if everyone’s okay with taking off their masks?”

“Oh thank god,” Danny mumbles. He pulls his off, folds it up and slides it in his pocket. Josselin just unhooks one ear and leaves his dangling, and you pull yours down to your chin.

About then, the cacophony of annoyed cat meows starts coming from the bathroom, and you grin sheepishly at Josselin and say, “Oh, sorry, you can let the cats out now.”

Josselin starts to turn away, then pauses to squint at Danny.

“You said your name is Danny, right?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Is it short for Danesh? Are you the Yazdis’s son?”

Danny pauses and frowns and actually looks a little thrown, which usually doesn’t happen. He’s pretty good at taking things in stride.

“Uh. Yes? Why do you ask?”

Josselin smiles and his face goes back to normal. “Oh, I did some work for them a while back, and they had a picture of you in their office. I just didn’t recognize you until you took off the mask.”

Now Danny squints at Josselin. “What do you mean, work?”

“Oh! I’m a freelance translator and they hired me for a couple one-off jobs.”

Danny nods slowly and glances over at you. You shrug and turn back to Josselin.

“Why don’t you go let the cats out while we break down these boxes?” you say. “They sound like they’re getting pretty insistent.”

Josselin seems to realize that he might have made a mis-step with Danny, and he takes your hint and leaves the room. But it wasn’t really a mis-step, more just. An awkward introduction. The windchime on the front door jingles when Josselin closes it, and shortly after, Familiar zooms by and you hear a clatter in the kitchen.

“Familiar!” Josselin groans, and you can’t help but smile.

Danny thumbs in the direction of the door. “You’re sure about this guy?”

You smile, and before you can answer, Familiar zooms into your room and darts under the bed. You laugh, and Danny chuckles, and Josselin comes to the doorway and says, “Sorry, they’re used to this being the Cat Hiding Room. You’re welcome to keep the door closed if you want them out, or we can get a baby gate, or--”

“She’s fine.” You grin. “I like cats. I don’t mind them coming in and out.”

Josselin grins back.

“Do you need sheets or pillowcases?” he asks. “I have some spares for when I have guests, you can use some if you need?”

“Thanks.” You nod, about to push yourself up, but Josselin holds up his hands.

“No, no, rest your ankle,” he says. “I’ll get it. No worries.”

He disappears again, and Danny’s smile turns a little more sure.

“Yeah,” he finally agrees, “I think you’ll be okay with him.” He drops a friendly, heavy hand on your shoulder and jostles you a little, and you laugh. He sits down beside you on the bed and lowers his voice.

“Think about what I said, though,” he murmurs. “About the restraining order. If Josselin does work with the police--and I feel like it’s better if I don’t ask why--he’ll hopefully be able to help you get it figured out.”

But you don’t have time to respond before Josselin comes back with a pale pink sheet with soft yellow flowers and pastel green leaves printed on.

“My last roommate left them,” he says. “I washed them, of course!” he says quickly. “But they might be a little thin in some places.”

“Thank you, Josselin,” you say, as he drops the sheets and two pillowcases in your lap.

“Up,” Danny says, grabbing your upper arm and pulling you to your feet. “I’ve got this. I don’t want you leaning over weird and re-twisting your ankle.”

You try your best to pout, but it probably actually looks more like you just ate something really sour.

Josselin begins to turn and gestures you to follow him out of the room. “Come on, we can look at the lease I wrote up while he does that.”

The lease is very straightforward with very little legalese, so you assume there was no lawyer involved, so you read it very carefully. It looks like Josselin is willing to cut you a deal for the rest of this month, since it’s already the 20th. He’s giving you the eleven days no charge, which is incredibly generous. Your lease starts on the first and will be up for renewal the thirty-first. If you break it before then, you still owe the full $500, but no fee. You have to pay for any damage that’s your fault. Okay. Seems fair.

Josselin sits quietly while you read, bouncing his foot again. His right thumb alternately presses into the tip of each finger on that hand, quickly, one after the other, like he’s counting something. Another stim? Your finger flippy thing is pretty similar. That’s actually kind of cool, that you have that in common.

You pick up the pen beside you to get to signing. Familiar jumps up on the table and headbutts Josselin’s shoulder. Josselin sighs, but chuckles a little, too, and picks her up and puts her in his lap.

“You know you’re not allowed on the table,” he says as he scratches her ears. She’s purring so loud you can hear it all the way over here. You smile to yourself and scribble out your name and the date in your terrible cursive, check to make sure you only need to sign the one line, and then slide the lease and the pen back to Josselin.

“Can I get a copy of that?” you ask. “Just for my own records.”

“Sure!” Josselin gently pushes Familiar off his lap and stands. “I have a scanner in my bedroom, do you want me to email you a copy, too?”

“Yeah, please.” You take back the lease and scribble your email on the back in the corner, because nobody ever spells your name right, and that way it goes to the right place.

As Josselin starts to head back to his room, your phone rings. It’s a number you don’t recognize. With a heavy, tired sigh, you mute your phone and place it facedown on the table. It’s probably your ex again, and if it’s not, you’ll just call back and say you were in another room and didn’t hear it ring.

Josselin turns around, holding the lease in both hands like he’s about to make a speech. His eyes dart from your face, down to the phone, up again, specifically to your mouth. It’s a little disconcerting.

When he doesn’t leave for his room, you ask, “What?”

“I know it’s not my business,” Josselin starts slowly, as if he’s afraid you’ll yell at him. Have you really come off as that mean? You’ve been under a lot of stress but that doesn’t mean you can be a jerk. You’ll have to pay more attention to your tone and body language.

“I know it’s not my business,” he repeats, “but that was Nobody, wasn’t it?”

You swallow hard and look away.

“Don’t delete anything they send you,” he advises. “Texts, emails, voicemails, whatever. Save them. Just in case.”

You sigh, slow and heavy. “I’ve been taking screencaps before I delete things,” you finally say. Josselin shakes his head.

“That might not be enough,” he says. “Save them. And. And if you want, I can act as a buffer or something. Answer calls and tell them to leave you alone. If you want,” he says again, quickly.

“All right, sheets and pillowcases are--” Danny pauses in the doorway of your new room when he sees you. “Everything okay?” he asks slowly.

Josselin’s eyes dart between the two of you, and he finally nods and holds up the lease and says, “Just making some copies. I’ll be right back.”

You and Danny watch as Josselin disappears into his room.

Danny sits down where Josselin had been--there are only two chairs--and leans toward you.

“Is everything okay?” he asks again, softly.

Your phone beeps, indicating that someone’s left a message. You scrunch your eyes closed a moment, then open them and try to smile.

“It was a number I didn’t recognize, so I let it go to voicemail. Just in case.”

Danny nods. “You sure you don’t want a restraining order? Legally he just has to have sent two harassing texts, and you’re way past that point. I know most of it happens through a judge but maybe Josselin’s connections could--”

“I just met him, Danny. I’m not going to bother him with stuff like that.”

Danny frowns. Familiar cozies up to you and starts rubbing her face on your legs. You lean down and offer a hand to sniff. She does, then headbutts it as if asking for pets.

“Hi there, Familiar!” you say, signalling that your conversation with Danny is over. “I’m Meara. I’m going to be your new roommate!”

Hopefully Josselin trimmed their claws recently, because you attempt to pick her up, gently. She meows but doesn’t show any discomfort, so your grip gets a little firmer as you lift her to sit in your lap. She purrs and headbutts you again, and you give her a little scritch behind her ears.

Danny’s frown slowly fades. He knows you, and he knows when and when not to push.

A few moments of awkward silence later, Josselin pokes his head out of the doorframe.

“Oh, something I forgot,” he starts. He moves fully back into the space. He’s playing with the hem of his shirt, awkward, almost scared. “Um. I have epilepsy. So I can’t drive. I don’t expect you to take me anywhere! Buses and Lyfts are fine. But if you see me having a seizure, please don’t call 911 unless I’ve hit my head. I’ll be fine and I can’t afford an ambulance or ER visit I don’t need. If you change your mind and decide not to stay--”

“Of course I’ll stay.” You offer a smile. “At least for the first month. And I don’t mind driving you places every now and then if you need it, I just can’t promise I always can.”

Josselin’s shoulders slump in relief and he offers a tremulous smile. “Okay. Okay, that’s good. Thank you for understanding.”

“Yeah,” you say. Your smile turns a little softer, but just as kind, you hope. “If there’s anything I can do to help, or anything specifically you need or want me to do, just ask, okay?”

Josselin lights up and nods. He leans out of view again and comes back with the copy of the lease.

The three of you sit around the living room talking for a few minutes, but Danny has a bunch of stuff to do for his parents, so with a quick hug and a ‘be careful, okay?’, he goes out on his way.

Josselin frowns just a little at the door after Danny leaves, eyebrows drawn. He looks back at you and opens his mouth, but you say,

“No, not you. He wasn’t talking about you.”

Josselin stares at you blankly for a moment as he works out what you mean.

“Oh. Oh!” He nods adamantly. “Yeah, okay.”

Another long, awkward pause.

"Um," Josselin says. You look back up from the table. "I have some ace bandages, if you think it would help."

Your shoulders slump in relief when he doesn't push it.

He points down the very small hallway by his room. "They're in the bathroom." He stands and sees Familiar in your lap. "You made a friend!" he grins. Familiar jumps onto the table and Josselin sighs. He picks her up and puts her on the couch behind him.

"No table," he says sternly. She just meows and starts to wash her face.

"Right back for real this time," he says. You smile at his retreating back.

Once he gives you the bandages and an apology, he disappears into his room and closes the door behind him.

He hasn't slept in two days, he said. So you move to the couch and the tote of toys beside it to keep the cats entertained.

Grandpa settles in on a pile of blankets in the corner and curls up, and Crackerjack climbs into the box when you’re not looking and runs off with a catnip mouse. Familiar sits on the floor in front of you, tail swishing excitedly back and forth. You dig around for a ribbon toy and play with her until she gets bored and you get tired. You got more sleep than Josselin, but still not much.

It would be more considerate to go back to your room, but now Familiar is curled up in your lap again, and she’s finally calm and sleeping. So you worm yourself around her and collapse into sleep on the couch, instead.

---

Your phone is ringing. You don’t know how long you’ve been asleep, but long enough for Familiar to finish her nap and run off. It’s still a struggle to get to your feet, especially after going up and down so many stairs, but you don’t want to leave it in case it’s a job prospect.

It’s a number you don’t know, again. You sit down at the dining table and hope for the best.

The lump in your throat feels as big as a baseball when you answer, and you choke around it a little.

“Hello?”

“Meara!”

Your stomach turns to a rock and slams to your feet. It is him. Your ex boyfriend. And now he knows this is still an active number. Shit.

“Meara, thank god you answered, I had to talk to you, I’m so--”

“Drake, I have told you, over and over, that I do not want to talk to you.” It comes out almost a feral growl, but you’re pissed off. “Don’t call me, don’t text me, don’t email or message me. I just moved in with a cop so if you don’t cut it out I’ll make sure he does it for you.”

A lie, of course. Josselin’s not a cop. He’s just a consultant, or at least, that’s how it seemed in the articles you read yesterday. But Drake doesn’t have to know that.

“But Meara--”

“I will get a fucking restraining order if I have to!” you shout. “I’ve saved everything, all your voicemails, all your texts, all the numbers you called me from. I didn’t want to, I wanted to believe you would grow up, but I will. This is our last communication, Drake. One more attempt and I’m going to my roommate and his team.”

You only half hear Josselin’s bedroom door open, and you don’t realize he’s walking toward you until he takes your phone out of your hand.

“Who’s this?” he asks, voice flat but polite. A pause. “You see, the thing is, I don’t care what you want. I am the roommate, and I am very good friends with Police Captain Montague, and if you don’t leave my friend alone, I’ll have him serve the papers to you personally.”

He gives your phone back and you just stare at him, jaw dropped and mouth opened. “Like you’re trying to catch flies,” Danny’s mom always says. It takes a moment, but when you bring the phone back to your ear, it’s silent. You look at the screen. Drake’s hung up.

There are so many things you should say and so many things you could ask, but instead, you say, “Can you do that?”

Josselin blinks at you, slowly, like he’s translating from another language before he answers you.

“I could ask as a personal favor,” he finally says.

You look at your phone and put it back on the table. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up, I shouldn’t have been yelling--”

Josselin shakes his head. His hair is a mess and he has dark circles under his eyes. “No, you’re fine. Some people deserve to be yelled at.”

You look down at his bare feet and the worn hems of his sleep pants. They’ve got pictures of little Zelda items on them.

He looks at you very sternly and says, “Well, now that you’ve made it clear that the Nobody who hurt your ankle is still bothering you, I’m gonna have to insist that you do, in fact, get a restraining order. I don’t want him coming around here.”

You pause a moment and say, gently, “Josselin, I understand you’re worried. Danny is too. And you’re right, I should. And now that we’ve threatened him with papers we kind of have to. But I think we need to lay down some boundaries really quick, and while I do very much appreciate you getting him off the phone, you can’t just grab it while I’m in the middle of a conversation.”

“Oh!” He has a look of surprise on his face, like he’d never thought of that. “I’d never take your phone in a normal conversation. But you were telling him to leave you alone and he wasn’t and I thought--”

“Thank you,” you say. You rub at your face and continue. “I know you had good intentions. But don’t do it again, okay?”

“Okay.” Josselin nods his head adamantly, then after a moment, he says, “Sorry.” He yawns, round and wide, like a cat. “I’m. I’m feeling pretty crispy still, so I’m going to lie back down and try to get a little more sleep.”

“Sorry,” you repeat, sheepishly.

He waves his hands in front of you, like he’s brushing your apology away. “No, no, it’s okay. I’m glad you’re all right. I’ll call Dona when I wake back up.”

“Dona?”

“Donatien.”

“Donatien…?” You trail off, hoping he’ll elaborate.

“Yeah,” he says instead.

“No, I mean, who is that and why are you telling me?”

“Oh!” Josselin nods again and says, “Inspector Montague.”

“I thought you said he's the Police Captain?”

“He is,” Josselin says. “He’s both. He prefers Inspector but, when we need to, we still throw the ‘Captain’ word around.”

Before you can say anything more, Josselin continues, “Anyway, back to bed with me. If you have any questions or want to talk to the Inspector, just let me know when I wake up and I’ll do what I can.”

“Thanks,” you say softly. You know your voice is kind of nasally, and it can be a lot to deal with when people are overwhelmed or tired.

Josselin waves his hand in the general direction of the bookshelves. “Feel free to read anything, or watch a DVD or whatever if you want. Netflix is logged in already. You can use the guest account and when I wake up I’ll see about making you your own if you want.”

“Guest account’s fine,” you say.

Josselin nods. Grandpa has woken from his nap at all the noise, and he jumps up onto the couch arm rest and bumps his head against Josselin’s elbow. Josselin holds out a hand for Grandpa to sniff, and once he does, he all but climbs up into Josselin’s arms.

“Gonna be my napping buddy?” he asks, voice gentle but warm. Grandpa snuggles in, and Josselin smiles.

---

After Josselin’s been to bed for an hour or so, your stomach begins to grumble. You’ll have to order groceries soon, but maybe in the meantime you can cook something and replace the ingredients when you order.

So you head into the kitchen, and oh, man, there’s a reason it’s so clean.

The fridge has containers of ketchup, sweet chili sauce, and ranch in various amounts. A case of water with only one bottle left. That’s it. In the bottomest left corner is a mason jar full of rusty water with nails at the bottom. Whatever that is, it’s definitely not for eating.

You turn to the cupboards. Half a loaf of white bread that’s gone moldy, an almost empty bag of chips. Dozens of rows of various energy drinks. How does he live like this? What does he eat?

So you throw away the bread and head back into your room, leaving the door open in case a cat wants to visit, and you look at grocery delivery options, so you can get some real food into this house.

It’ll take some time for them to get your order together and get here, but finally, twenty minutes later, you have an order in and some fresh food on its way. More bread. Fruits and veggies, fresh and frozen. A couple kinds of cheese. Dry and canned beans.

Tons more, and your bill ends up being almost $200, but since you have so much money saved, it’s doable. You’ll just have to be careful from now on.

And while you wait for your groceries to arrive, you peruse Josselin’s bookshelves for something to read.

---

Josselin wakes up while you’re putting the groceries away. He shuffles out into the kitchen in a pair of socks and his Zelda sleep pants, yawns, and asks, “What’s all this?”

You turn toward him as you put away the last of it.

“Groceries,” you say. “You had literally no food. Are you okay? Do you need me to help you with like, EBT or something? We could both probably apply, since I’m out of work right now--”

“Oh!” A look of distress marrs Josselin’s face. “Oh, no, no, Meara, you didn’t have to do this--”

“You had no food! Of course I did,” you say. “I’ll share with you. You’ve gotta eat.”

“No, it’s not that.” Josselin’s voice is almost a distressed whine. “I just don’t eat at home. I go out. I can’t cook and I have this… thing, where I can’t eat stuff unless it’s prepackaged or cooked in a professional kitchen, because if it’s made at home it could be wrong, and someone could get sick or--”

You close the fridge door and stand up. “Hey, hey, it’s fine,” you say gently, trying to soothe him. “I got some snacks, too. In bags and boxes. You know, granola, yogurt, stuff like that. Is that okay?”

Josselin’s hands are curled together and pushed against his chest, shaking.

“I don’t know,” he says, voice trembling. “I never tried it. I don’t go to the store because it’s too loud and the fluorescent lights are too bright and they always flicker and there’s so many people and--”

“Josselin,” you say gently, about to rest your hand on his shoulder. But you pause, because a lot of people with ASD don’t like being touched suddenly, so instead you ask, “Is it okay if I put my hand on your shoulder?

He hesitates, then nods. You gently, very gently, touch the side of his shoulder. He flinches, so you drop your hand and move a step back to give him space.

“Do you like ice cream?” you ask. “I got some cookies and cream. I don’t mind sharing.”

“But the top--”

“Is sealed with plastic,” you reassure him. “I’ll leave it alone and let you open it and take as much as you want before I eat any, okay?”

Josselin’s lip wobbles and he looks down at his feet.

“Meara, thank you so much for thinking of me, but I can’t… I don’t know why I’m like this, I don’t know why I can’t just eat normal food at home like everyone else, but I just. It’s. It feels bad.”

You offer a smile and lead him out of the kitchen and back to the living room.

“It’s okay,” you say, sitting him down on the couch. “You’re an adult, you’re obviously healthy enough to not have to worry about it. You can eat whatever you want and avoid whatever you don’t. I just didn’t know. I’m sorry I freaked you out. But don’t worry, the food won’t go bad. I like cooking, and I don’t mind if I’m doing it just for me while you run out to get something, or order in. I was just worried you weren’t eating because there was so little food. If you don’t mind, you can invite some friends, or I can invite Danny, and we can have a little three or four person meal to use up some of the perishables faster. It’ll be fine. I promise.”

Josselin shakes his head wildly, and he doesn’t even comment when Familiar starts banging at the kitchen trash door.

“Don’t make promises,” he says softly. “Eventually everyone always breaks them.”

It stabs you right through the chest, the sad, defeated, accepting way he says it.

“Well, how about this,” you say. “I’ll cook what I want and you eat what you want, and next time, I’ll consult you before I make my grocery list.”

Josselin offers a weak, watery smile and nods.

“I’m sorry.” It catches in your throat a little, but you keep going. “I haven’t even been here twenty-four hours and I’m already causing you so much trouble.”

Josselin’s smile turns up a little on one side, and he shakes his head, much less adamantly this time. “No, you haven’t. You were genuinely trying to do a kind thing, and I appreciate it. I do.”

You both pause and look away from each other. You rub at your legs with your hands, and when you glance over at Josselin, he’s doing the same. You can’t help but chuckle.

“What?” Josselin asks, turning back to you.

“We have some of the same stims.” Your smile is crooked, but honest.

Josselin’s shoulders perk a little and he glances from your hands to his.

“We do!” He chuckles, too.

For a moment, you both sit there in awkward silence. Josselin starts bouncing his knee again.

A phone rings in his bedroom, a jaunty little 8-bit tune, and Josselin jumps up and hurries to answer it.

Just as well. You don’t want to push boundaries too much. He likes you now, but he might not like you later.

Moments later he whirls out of the bedroom, pulling a shirt on while still talking on the phone. He’s wearing jeans now, instead of his pajama pants. He rushes to the front door where he pulls on his shoes one at a time, one hand at a time. He’s talking so fast you can barely understand him.

“All right, I’ll be there,” he finishes, then hangs up and stuffs it in his pocket.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” you ask hesitantly. You’d like to help, but you don’t want to overstep again. “Whoever that was, it sounds pretty important.”

“The Inspector,” Josselin says. He leans his shoulder against the wall as he struggles to pull his second shoe on without untying it.

You begin to stand, begin to ask, “Are you o--”

He whirls around to you with a wide, almost manic smile on his face.

“There’s been a murder. Woman went missing last week and they found her body.”

Your mouth hangs open a minute, yet again, catching flies. Why is he smiling if there’s been a murder?

But he whips out his phone and taps at his screen a few times, and before you can say “screw this” and go back to your room and not get involved, your brain shorts out, and instead you ask, again, “You need a ride?”

---

You follow Josselin’s directions and end up at one of the forest preserves out past Schiller Park. Josselin kindly found you an ankle brace so you can walk along the paths, even if you can’t go out into the woods. The worst part is still getting up and down. Walking on flat surfaces is relatively okay, and the paths in the forest preserves are generally pretty well kept.

Josselin doesn’t offer any information, and you don’t ask any questions. What the hell have you gotten into?

Josselin taps at his phone in the backseat while some ‘80s station plays softly on the radio. You offered him shotgun but he prefers it back there. The music isn’t your favorite, but at least it’s something most people can deal with, and Josselin doesn’t seem to mind.

When you arrive at the entrance you’ve been told to, you park, and before you’ve even shut the car off, a man in uniform, maybe mid-thirties? Still young. He approaches the car, waving a disposable mask and a glove. Josselin jumps out and you stay put, unsure of whether you should follow, but then Josselin knocks on the window and gestures for you to follow him.

So you do.

“This is Inspector Montague,” Josselin says, switching out his cloth mask for the medical grade one. “Dona, this is Meara.”

The Inspector squints at you, not rudely, just. Thinking. “Why are you here?” he finally asks.

“Oh, uh, I was the ride,” you say. You thumb back at your car. “I can stay here if--”

“Nonsense!” Josselin cries. The two of you follow the Inspector back to his squad car. He digs out a second mask and glove and a container of Vicks. Oh, man, Josselin did say she went missing a week ago. The body must have been here a while.

You switch out your masks and pull on the glove. You’ve been out of work a few months but you’ll remember this drill for the rest of your life. You swipe your gloved finger in the gloop and smear some under your nose, that familiar, sickening menthol smell, then hand it to Josselin to do the same.

“Oh! You were a paramedic, weren’t you?” Josselin asks, eyebrows up.

“Yeah. Some things you don’t forget.” You pull your disposable mask up and stuff your fabric one in your pocket.

The Inspector still looks a little wary of you, but then, you’re not a cop and you’re no longer medical personnel either, and breach of privacy and disrupting crime scenes and all that.

“I can stay back,” you meekly offer again.

The Inspector opens his mouth, and the look on his face says he’s about to agree with you, but Josselin interrupts.

“He goes where I go.”

The Inspector hikes an eyebrow, then sighs in exasperation and gestures you both to follow.

You let him and Josselin have a little space, because you don’t want to, like, learn any sensitive information that could drag you in more than you already have been. They’re speaking in French, anyway, but so quietly you can barely hear.

Finally, they switch back to English, and the Inspector looks over his shoulder to say, “Her name’s Tobi Miles, but her friends and family called her Bon-Bon. She went missing last week and some kids found her body buried in a plastic tote not too long ago. They must have called their parents because the press is already here.”

Josselin shakes his head. “No, it’s all over Twitter.”

The Inspector pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales sharply. “And now I have an even bigger and wider-spread panic to quell. Excellent.”

“I saw in the photos that she was wearing an animal costume?” Josselin asks.

“There are photos? Oh, God.”

“Yeah.”

The Inspector sighs and rubs his forehead for a moment. “Yes, she is. We’re not sure what that means yet, or if there’s a connection. I have people interviewing friends and family back at the station.”

Wherever the tote they found her in was, it’s been moved to the main path and blocked off with police tape on all sides. The press is pushing in and trying to get as much information as possible, and there’s so much noise, and so many people, and oh, god, this woman is dead, what have you gotten yourself into?

The crime scene is blocked off with plenty of distance, but you can still hear the press and police yelling at each other, and any time cops yell, you get nervous. But no violence breaks out. No more than what’s happened to the woman already.

There are a few paramedics around, waiting for the investigation to finish so they can move the body to the morgue. Nobody you recognize. Probably not from your old station. There are so many companies, after all, and this is pretty far away from where you used to be stationed.

Even with the Vicks and the mask trapping the medicinal smell, you can smell the body before you see it. You take as deep a breath as you can and remind yourself: you used to see this on a daily basis. You’ve probably seen worse. Just be respectful and stay out of the way.

The body is, indeed, in a bright purple wolf costume you recognize as one of the local college’s mascots.

“Why is she dressed for a game?” you can’t help but ask.

Inspector Montague turns to you. “What?”

Josselin’s question is a bit more off-color: “You recognize this? Are you a furry?”

“What?” Your head swivels between them. “No, she’s not a furry… well, I don’t know, she might be, but not because of this costume. It’s a mascot costume from one of the colleges downtown. I don’t remember which but you can google it. I remember thinking it was irresponsible to open up for game practice so early when I was looking into doing college courses online.”

“But are you a furry?” Josselin presses, eyes wide with interest. “I know you didn’t bring in a costume, but--”

You look away from the Inspector and back to him.

“No? I mean, they’re fine and all, but I’m not?”

The spark of interest in Josselin’s eyes fades a little, and you can’t help but think he wanted your answer to be ‘yes’ so he could pick your brain.

“Bring a costume?” the Inspector repeats.

“New roommate!” Josselin bounces on his toes and looks over at you again.

The Inspector raises an eyebrow. “Roommate?”

Josselin nods brightly, and your face flushes in the summer heat.

Josselin might not have gotten it, but you did. Does the Inspector think you’re his boyfriend?

Before you can ask the admittedly stupid and off-topic question, Josselin leans over the corpse a little and says, “I don’t recognize the costume, but I’m sure someone will. When we find out what college she was at, we can narrow some things down.”

“But it’s downtown,” you say. “I don’t remember which college, but I only looked downtown, so it has to be one of them. Doesn’t it? So why is she all the way out here?”

“Because this wasn’t panic, this was a plan,” Josselin mumbles.

He hmms under his breath and leans closer. With his gloved hand, he gently, respectfully moves parts of the costume around. It’s already unzipped in the back and her arm’s falling out. She’s wearing a t-shirt. Oh, thank god.

“Meara?” he finally says. You point to yourself, as if there’s someone else here with such an unusual name.

“Come here. I want you to look at something.”

The Inspector grumbles but does step to the side when you move closer. Josselin must have an incredible amount of influence with him.

He gestures to her arm and pulls a corner of the costume off her chest.

“Skin’s sloughing off. Maggots. How long do you think she’s been here?”

“Here, in the forest?” you ask. “I can’t say. But she’s probably been in this tote for the whole time she’s been missing.”

“I assume this tote had a lid?” Josselin asks.

“Yes,” the Inspector says.

“Then she was basically cooking in the ground, with the recent heat,” he says. You slip back into professional mode, respectful but unattached, simply observing the situation, looking at the victim’s body and taking in everything Josselin says. “That’s probably why her skin’s sloughing off more than it would have otherwise. She’s been… well, marinating in this costume this whole time, gross as it sounds.”

His eyes dart over the body, no expression on his face. Then, he frowns, and leans back down to reach in the tote again. He pokes at something on the costume’s foot with a gloved finger, then drags it along it in a line.

He squints at it, tilts his head to the side, obviously considers smelling it and changes his mind.

“Have you run any tests yet?”

“No,” the Inspector says. “We’re still gathering evidence. What did you find?”

“I think there were drugs involved,” Josselin said.

“Do you think she overdosed and her friends panicked?”

Josselin shakes his head. “Get a swab of the costume’s left foot, top and bottom, and run it for a full drug panel. I can’t tell what this is just by looking. Could be ground up aspirin for all we know.”

“But it’s not,” the Inspector says.

“It’s not,” Josselin repeats softly.

You watch them as they speak, but your ankle throbs and it makes it difficult to really listen, and you’re starting to feel like you’re more in the way than not. You shift your weight to your good foot and Josselin, who stands with his profile toward you, whirls in your direction and says, “Meara, is your ankle all right?”

You nod and flush bright red in embarrassment. You tell yourself it’s the heat.

“Yeah,” you say, but your voice catches a little. “It just aches.”

“Oh!” Josselin cries. “Oh, I’m so sorry, you’ve been standing here all this time with that bad ankle, I got distracted, oh, um, I need to stay with the Inspector but if you need to go home and rest that’s more than okay! He can give me a ride home, or I can catch a Lyft.”

You look over toward the Inspector. His skin is so fair it’s already burning in the August sun. He nods.

“I’ll get him home,” he says.

Your shoulders relax a little. Why be so worried? He’s a grown adult who can take care of himself. You’re not his dad or his babysitter. He’s fine. And Inspector Montague seems to have a good head on his shoulders, so although you’re hesitant to leave him with all the cops around, you’re able to mentally gamble on the fact that he’ll be protected.

“All right,” you finally say. “Is there anything else you want me to look at? You have the paramedics here for body removal and I’m sure they know anything I know.”

Josselin smiles and nods. He’s bouncing his leg and tapping his thumb to his clean fingers again. Only then do you realize you’ve been playing with your spinner ring the past ten minutes.

You twist your wrist and curl your fingers in and out, then you nod and say, “All right. Take care. Josselin, did you copy my phone number from the lease?”

Josselin nods. “Yeah. Do you have mine?”

You smile, a little lopsided. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You all stand there awkwardly for a few moments, until another police officer approaches Josselin and the Inspector from behind and gently takes the Inspector’s elbow to get his attention.

That’s your cue.

The ride home is too quiet, even with the radio playing. Your head feels like it’s full of honey-soaked cotton and static, thick and sticky, even in the smallest recesses of your brain, sucking out your attention span. Did you take your meds earlier? You did, right? When you get to a red light, you squeeze your eyes closed hard and rub at your forehead, as if that will clear your mind.

Shit. You didn’t take your meds. If you had, you wouldn’t feel like this.

The light turns green and you glance at the clock on the dashboard. Two hours late. You should still be able to take them when you get home.

When you get home. Not when you get back to the motel. It’s a nice, comforting thought to have. You have a home.

A safe one.

It’s not long until you reach the apartment. You park the car and fumble up the stairs, and when you get to the door, you realize--

“He forgot to give me the copy of my key,” you mumble. “Dammit.”

You sigh and dig out your phone from your bag. Hopefully he answers.

Three rings in, he does, and when he answers, it’s with a high-pitched, worried, “Are you okay?”

It takes you off guard and you fall quiet a few seconds.

“Meara?”

“Sorry,” you say, as you come back to yourself. “I just got home and realized I don’t have a key.”

“Oh,” Josselin groans. “Meara, I’m so sorry, I was so tired I completely spaced. If you go down to JavaThai, and tell them I’m your roommate, they can give you a spare key. They always keep one in case of emergencies. Hang on, let me check the time.” A pause. “Oh! They’ll have my dinner ready, too, if you can pick that up? It’s been paid for. Just put it in the fridge.”

“All right.”

You say your goodbyes and hang up, then stumble back down the stairs.

The restaurant is small without being closed in, not confined, but comfortable. There are a few small tables and a few big ones. A young East Asian woman and a small child are sitting at the only table without the chairs up on it. Maybe she works here?

“Welcome!”

You turn toward the voice to see another tall, pretty East Asian woman, wearing a simple white mask that matches her blouse. Her long hair is pulled back in a ponytail. “Sorry, we’re not seating inside right now. Unless you’re here for pickup?”

You turn toward the woman and boy at the table and her gaze follows.

“Oh, that’s my sister; she’s an employee here, and--”

“Oh!” You start. “Oh, no, um, not that, uh, Josselin Clearwater, from upstairs? I’m his new roommate and we got called out and I came back without him and I don’t have a key and he said you keep a spare? And also he asked me to get his dinner. He said it’s paid for?”

The smile lines around her eyes soften into something more friendly and sincere.

“Oh!” she laughs. She links a loose hair behind her ear. “What’s your name?”

“Meara.”

“I’m Eleanor,” she says. “My family runs this restaurant and owns the apartment upstairs. You and Josselin should come by together sometime after closing, I’m sure everyone would love to see you. My grandma is always looking for new people to dote on.”

You smile back and nod, shifting to your good foot again. Eleanor looks down at your feet and she lets out a soft gasp.

“I’m so sorry! Here you are injured and I’m just rambling away. I’ll go get everything.” She gestures to a few seats by the door. “Please, sit!”

“It’s easier to stand.”

“All right. I’ll be right back.”

She rushes back through a door that probably leads to either a kitchen or an office, and, as promised, she returns with the key and a bag of food.

“Here you go, Meara,” she says with a kind smile. “Go home and get some rest. You look exhausted.”

You chuckle and nod, and make your way to the back parking lot and up the stairs again.

You put the food away, and this time, you’re able to make it all the way to your bed before you collapse. You nuzzle into the pillow. It smells really nice. It’s like lavender and lemongrass. You’ll have to ask Josselin where he gets his detergent, so your clothes can smell like this.

Dammit, you still haven’t taken your meds.

It’s the last thought you have before you crash into a deep, quiet sleep.

#writeblr #excerpt #mystery #chapter one #wip #wip boost #amwriting #my writing #the most beautiful puzzle #sheraton academy au #josselin clearwater #meara ryanne #inspector montague #donatien montague #drake the stalker #familiar #see post body for warnings

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