“Only once for me, at his graduation,” Butch offers. “I hated how they talked to him, but I don’t know if that means they’d do this.”
The debate continues, but I tune it out. It’s not like I could contribute anything, and I’d rather watch Phil and Vivi.
When the doorbell finally rings, half of us jump. We’ve been waiting for it, but it still shocks us. Jordan gets up to answer, and I stand as well, then shoot Phil an agonized look. I want to talk to the detective before he comes in here, but I don’t want to leave my guy when he’s so vulnerable.
“Go,” Harold says softly, sitting up and moving closer. “We’ve got this, and it’s only for a minute.”
I hesitate a second longer, then step away. Blaise is in my seat before I’ve even reached the doorway.
I’m glad he has friends like this.
As I reach them at the front door, Jordan’s greeting a tall Black man in chinos and a button-down with a backpack slung over one shoulder.
The man holds up his badge. “Detective Spears, LAPD. Is one of you Griff Pevensy?” He looks from me to Jordan, then does a double take. “Jordan Marks?” To his credit, his voice stays even and professional.
“Hi,” Jordan says, offering a hand for him to shake. “This is Griff.”
“Thanks for coming,” I add, shaking his hand also and then stepping back so he can come in and Jordan can close the door.
“I’m sorry you need me to. Hanna Weston called and said you had a stalker situation?”
“My boyfriend does. He’s in the living room, but there are a few things you should know first.”
His face immediately closes over. “I’ll need to speak with him.”
“Yes, of course, but he’s not verbal at the moment. Phil has selective mutism. He’s extremely anxious right now and uncommunicative. Would it be okay if we explained what happened and showed you the box? Hopefully by then he’ll be calm enough to answer some questions.”
Spears relaxes a little. “It’s normal in situations like this for people to experience anxiety, and if there’s a pre-existing anxiety disorder, it’s even worse. I will need to meet him before I leave today. I’d also like to interview him, but if he’s not up to it, I can come back another time for that.”
Jordan exhales, and I know how he feels. I was prepared to go toe to toe with the detective if he turned out to be one of those “anxiety doesn’t exist” asshats. I’m glad he seems willing to give Phil space. “Thank you. We really appreciate that.”
“You said he’s nonverbal—should I arrange for an ASL translator?”
I shake my head. “No, that’s not necessary. When he’s not able to speak, he’ll use his phone or a pen to write out what he wants to say.”
Spears nods. “Good, good. Okay, well, before we go in there and confront him with a stranger, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
I wonder if the LAPD trains their officers on how to deal with people who have anxiety, or if this guy’s just a special case, because so far, he’s checking every box. “There was a package outside the apartment door,” I begin, and he holds up a hand.
“It wasn’t here?”
I shake my head. “No, this is Jordan’s house. We were at Phil’s apartment—do you want the address?”
He swings his backpack off his shoulder and fishes a notepad and pen out. “Yeah. Do you mind if I take notes?”
“Go for it.” I tell him Phil’s address, then continue, “We were running late to come here, and Calla almost tripped over the box?—”
“Calla?”
“Calla Gardner, Phil’s roommate and business partner. She’s here, so you’ll be able to talk to her.”
“Great. Before we go on, what’s Phil’s full name and occupation?”
“Philip Marchand. He’s the co-owner and head designer of the fashion label Phallacy.”
His gaze comes up. “That’s why you look familiar. I thought you might be another ball player, but you’re the guy who was on the TMZ site this week. My wife showed me the pictures, was talking about you and your guy and how it’s gross that your privacy was invaded.”
“Your wife sounds like a classy woman. Yeah, that was us.”
