Elliot Grey Solves a Murder

Chapter 1 : I set in motion events which will lead to my own destruction

A hot August, summer in the city, and New York is waited with baited breath for the heat to break. Music pumping in my crackling headphones and sweat running down the back of my neck, I am one of many pedestrians on this fine sunny day. The sun bakes pigeons and litter into the pavement beneath my feet, and seems to bake up through the soles of my borrowed tennis shoes.
I shoulder my backpack and duck my head. I'm not being followed, but the three chain link fences I jumped to escape custody got me paranoid. It's a few more blessed steps to freedom. Or relative freedom. I'm loose, that's something. But I won't stay loose without a favor.
I let myself into the all glass paneled office building with a thumb print scan. Shocked that still works. My personal life has been rather complicated of late. Fifteen years and six months ago I was born and it's all been down hill ever since. The way my life is going I don't have high expectations for the next fifteen. But nobody listens to me all because I have 'several psychiatric disorders' and 'an attitude problem' and 'spend too much time on the Internet'.
But this story isn't really about me. Or my personal problems. If so it'd probably read a lot more like the DSM-V. Or a want ad. Or a scenario for future therapists so they can fix other people. But I digress (I do that a lot).
This is a story about my best friend, Lucas Yarrow. Who has been murdered.
Which is what brings me back to the source of all my problems, my father.
I buzz myself into the office. I don't anticipate a good reunion because I'm "not supposed to be loose" and "need therapy". But at the moment he's sadly my last hope.
"I crave a boon," I say, walking into the glass paneled office. It smells of rug cleaner. And disappointment.
"Why do you walk in places like that—? Elliot what are you even doing here?" My father stands up from his desk, putting a hand through his slutty hair. If I sound resentful it's going to become obvious why, take my word for it.
"You have to send me back to Forest Grove," I say, fists on his glass desk. "It's important. Please? This is all I will ask of you."
"Elliot how did you get out of therapy? Again?" He sighs.
"They need to get higher fences or smarter day staff. Please. Please," I say.
"Like I said at visitation, why don't we just take this year easy? You don't need a fast paced Academy right now, and maybe it would be good for us? Stay at the pent house, I found some very good programs here on line, in person isn't for everyone god I hated high school," he sighs, waving away his secretary Jason who, based on the reflections in the window, was making not at all subtle handgestures that he's about to call the police.
"Please? I want to go back," I say.
"Boarding school isn't for everyone, El, you can live at home, go therapy, I'm usually around, might be good for us," he says, "You didn't even like Forest Grove last year, you didn't want to go."
"I know. But I need to go back. You remember when I got hospitalized this spring I told you I made one friend? Lucas?" I ask, "Who quit answering my texts this summer?"
"Yes," he nods, "Look if your friend quit answering—kids can be mean, El. Just, I found some good programs for you here—,"
"Look," I slide my phone across the desk to him. No, they don't give you a phone in patient therapy they keep it in a locker up front with a very accessible lock. If you have criminal tendencies and too much time your hands and a very good distraction.
"You started a fire in your hospital?" He asks, checking his phone.
"Hey, not giving me your undivided attention and being disconnected due to technology isn't good for my prognosis," I say, snapping my fingers.
"I'm sorry my cherished son. You started a fucking fire in your hospital?" He asks, folding his arms.
"Yes, I had to get out, will you look?" I ask, pointing at my phone.
He sighs, looking down, "Three juniors died falling off a cliff on a hiking trip?"
"Yes," I say, "It's Forest Grove, they don't publish names." Hazard of going to an elite school. When everyone's the child of a celebrity, mob boss, or senator, then little things like deaths get rapidly covered up in the media. They would never release names lawsuits would come in faster than they could kiss their credentials good bye.
"I can—try to find out if it was your friend that died? I mean, realistically speaking," he says, frowning.
"Just let me go back. And see for myself? And who did it? It'll be easier," I say.
"Not really—?"
"Come on, that's clearly foul play, I want to know what happened and even the parents are going to be tight lipped, especially if it was drinking or drugs," I say.
"Drugs go on there?"
"Your concern is noted and I'll bring it up in therapy. No. I don't know. I don't need drugs to be like this," I say, hand to my chest.
"I'm bringing up in therapy you're dealing with the diagnosis with humor that's good—,"
"That or fucking cut my wrists—gallows humor, not suicidal," I say, holding up a hand.
He sighs.
"My point is teenagers, drugs, alcohol, if they even thought weed was in their system everyone will shut up, and half the parents there, mommy dearest included, can buy and sell silence. The other kids and gossip will be the only way I find out what really happened," I say, "Please? You know I'm right. Plus—I could use to feel normal okay?"
"And if Lucas just quit talking to you?"
"I got my last text, the day these kids died," I say.
He sighs, "And if he did? Maybe his parents took away his phone —if he was even tangentially involved with these kids."
"You just used tangentially in a sentence and you're bitching that I opened the conversation with 'boon'?" I ask, hand on hip, very sassy in my escaped mental patient sweats and t-shirt.
"Elliot."
"Okay, god. I need to know okay? If he quit talking to me, he's a dick, I'll tell him he's a dick and you'll be the first to know 'cause I'll probably punch him and get my ass expelled. Please?" I ask.
He takes a deep breath.
"I don't want to hide. I don't want to live here in New York I said all this in therapy. I want to feel normal," I say, "As normal as it gets. Don't I get normal too?"
"One semester at a time—,"
"Yes! Yes, thank you," I pump a fist.
"—I tell the nurse every one of your diagnosises, we keep up family therapy, and individual therapy over zoom, anytime of the day or night I call you, you pick up, you miss one dose of meds, you get in one fight, you're not just home you're back in in patient, got it?" He asks.
"Yes, thank you, thank you," I say.
"I'm also telling your mother," he says.
"Do you have to?" I wince.
"El, your brothers are there."
"A very long court case and about a million dollars in paternity testing proved they are my HALF brothers," I say.
"Your half brothers still go there," he sighs, "That's going to be awkward."
"Not as awkward as weekly family therapy former dad insists on," I say, folding my arms.
"We're trying to be civil about this. And I know your half brothers might not be mature about it either," he says.
"For you and my mom—,"
"Elliot—,"
"—fucking behind former dad's back, being the cause of all of this, why am I the one being punished?" I ask. Guilt never hurts.
"I don't want you across the country in what could become a bad situation. That's it," he says, "You know you're not being punished. You're just trying to manipulate me to sending you back to school."
"Is it working?" I ask.
"A little. Look what I said last week in therapy, and in court, is true. You're old enough to decide what to study—and where to live. But," he says.
"But I'm crazy," I say.
"But we want you to be safe," he says.
"I'll be okay. Seriously they don't bother me," I say, "I'll ignore them. Or tell them to go suck their dicks."
"About that. One fight and I will pull you out," he says.
"That's outrageous—,"
"It's—really not—-,"
"You've met me. Seriously. You cannot Prozac me out of being confrontational—,"
"You're not on Prozac anymore."
"Right cause I hit people on it proves my point—,"
"Fine. Three fights. Three. In the entire term," he says.
"What about ones I don't start?"
"Those are ones you don't start, Jesus, Elliot!"
"Joke," I hold up my hands. Reader, it was not a joke. I do not get better. "Thank you. Paternal figure who I accept."
"You don't have to call me dad."
"Thank Christ. Thank you, Stephen," I say.
"You're welcome," my dad says, dryly, pressing a button his desk.
"Yes?" Jason asks, coming in hands clasped, clearly prepared to call the police.
"Please enroll Elliot in Forest Grove, however possible I know it's late in the year," my father says.
"Right," Jason mouths something.
"No that is not code for call the police! Just—enroll him, thank you," he sighs.
"Thank you, seriously," I say, pocketing my phone.
"I'll call the hospital, tell them in I'm discharging you a week early," he says, texting.
"You're really going to tell my mother?" I ask.
"Yes, Elliot, she does worry about you," he says, "Now, I'm still flying out tonight. Where do you want to go?"
I fold my arms.
"You do have a home."
"Not really," I say. He has primary custody.
"Look, I don't even know what your mother is doing this weekend probably work don't know how local, but I'm not going to subject an on call nurse to whatever antics you have prepared," he says.
"Can't you just send me to Forest Grove? Early? They have staff nurses and hall monitors, that's totally in the custody agreement thing," I offer, "I'm ready to fly out."
"I have your things at the pent house. We can pack you up," he sighs, texting, "I'll see if I can delay my trip two days. Then you fly out in two days. I'll work from home."
"I'll be good," I say, quickly, "You won't even know I'm there."
"Seriously? Catch up on TV you might have missed, I'll try let me see," he says, still texting.
"Taylor Swift dropped a new album while I was in rehab, so I need to incorporate that into my personality it'll take at least two days," I say, eagerly.
"Okay, I pushed my trip back two days but that means I won't be able to fly you there—,"
"They have staff that pick us up I'm fine," I say.
"They'd better for what they cost," he mutters.
"Hey, I'm only going to say this once because it's still so much more your fault than mine," I say, snapping my fingers.
He looks up from his phone.
"Sorry, I'm a pain in the ass," I say.
"Not a pain in the ass. And I'm sure your mother will pay your tuition if it means I let her have visitation over Christmas," he says.
"You hate Christmas."
"I know. She knows that too, even so, don't worry about it—are you wearing some nurse's shoes?" He finally looks through the glass desk at my recently borrowed Velcro new balance.
"Are you going to say no to everything if I say yes?"
"No."
"Yes."
"Okay," he sighs, "What happened to the shoes I sent you?"
"They were—very flammable," I say.
"Jesus, Elliot."
"I tried calling for three hours, some bitch wouldn't stop being psycho by the phone—,"
"Elliot."
"A fellow patient who deserves my compassion as preventing me from using the phone so I did this," I say.
"You had your cell phone last night," he says.
"Right I was googling this. I couldn't figure out why Lucas hadn't answered," I sigh, holding up my phone as evidence.
"I'm sorry about your friend. Either way."
"Thanks," I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets to have something to do with them.
"All right. Trip pushed back. Working from home the next couple of days. I can't leave for possibly three more hours, four if my next meeting doesn't go well, you and Taylor all right in here for a bit?" He asks, motioning around his office.
"Yeah," I say, "Who's your first meeting with?"
"Your mother."
"I'll settle in," I say, going to the corner to sit in a stiff leather chair, "Why does former-dad let her do briefs with you still?"
"Oh I'm sure he doesn't know she's showing up, I still have access to her calendar," he says.
"Don't tell her I'm out yet?" I ask, hopefully.
"I'm not completely stupid, thanks El," he says, picking up a sleek Mac book and his phone. "Hang out, think about what you want for dinner. Tell Jason if you need anything."
"Traumatize Jason, got it."
"Two hours, I'll shoot for two hours," he says.
He's gone for six hours.
I'm fine with that. After months of no Internet access, just me, my phone, and my charger cord, have a perfectly fine time. I lay down on the floor of his office close to an outlet, googling Forest Grove, doing everything I can to research the deaths. And I contemplate breaking a Forest Grove code.
In an elite private school where most of our personal lives are the stuff of media fodder, actual privacy is sacred. Therefore, it's considered not only uncouth, but in fact down right rude, to google one another. Now, rumors still persist. And sure people do it all the time. But talking about it is the way to become a social pariah. I'm sure by the time I get back the news of my hospitalization and the paternity case will be public knowledge. But talking about it is a one way ticket to social hell.
Teachers enforce the rules stringently. It's unwritten, but gossiping about peers or their parents is low. Again, sure we talk about each other, within the confines of school. Academics, all that, up for grabs. But our lives outside of school, not so much.
And sure I could do it. He probably already has googled me. But. It's still code. And if he genuinely doesn't want to talk to me, then okay, he can tell me to my face when I get back to school. And maybe some deeply awful shit went down in his personal life too in which case he might want to tell me in person. And not have me find out from the news that would be kind of shitty of me.
So I'm waiting. I'll be back at school. And my dad did say I can come back. So I can come back if I change my mind, or if Lucas is a dick. I get out all of my three fights on him and then go home. Well, no, okay two of the three fights. Because on the third I'm back in inpatient.
Instead I content myself with browsing the general news, and logging back in to streaming, and listening to music on repeat. I'm not looking for classmate's family's on the news, mostly just this family. Oh good some not at all flattering photos of me being ushered into rehab. Aw, I don't remember my dad trying to shield my face that's nice. My former father's statements are vague. What my classmates haven't already read, I'm sure will be revealed by my half brothers. But still.
I'm surprised how relaxed I am actually being out of that place. I knew I hated it. But the meds have everything at a passive numb so I'm really and truly relaxing to find myself finally unmonitored, relatively free, with unrestricted access to my phone. I'm groggy from the meds and zero caffeine, and fall asleep curled up, face on my arm, listening to music videos.
I'm woken up by a hand gently shaking my shoulder.
I jerk awake, blinking sleepily.
"Sorry that took a while," my dad says, withdrawing his hand, "What time do you take your meds?"
"Has to be with dinner. We ah—sorry gotta call a pharmacy or something," I say, naturally I didn't bolt with any medication on me.
"I did, it's going to be delivered in a couple of hours," he says.
"Thanks, they ah—feed us at eight," I say, "Every twelve hours."
"Okay, let's go home then," he says, packing up his laptop, cell phone, and a handful of jump drives into a sleek designer backpack. I pick up my own Jansport mental-patient black bag. It's just what they let me have my stuff in it's not really mine.
I follow him out of the now mostly quiet office. He greets cleaning staff and a couple of office workers by name. None question obviously recently emancipated me trailing him.
"What do you want to eat?" He asks.
"Is sleep an option?"
"No."
"I don't care," I say, I'm pissed he's trying to make this okay. And worse I know he's trying to be okay and it isn't personal it just feels it. Because meds were at six, not at eight. I lied. But I'm not about to have him send me back.
There's a black SUV waiting. For all the environmentally friendly brands the very common Cadillac is a gas guzzler, and very non descript. My dad unlocks and I crawl into the passenger seat. I feel like hell now and want to go back to sleep and wake up feeling better. I finally made it out of that shithole.
"You okay?" He asks.
"I'm fine," I say.
"A negative response, doesn't mean I send you back there. That was court ordered you know that," he says.
"No. I'm never okay. I think I'm just not okay," I say, hands to my face.
I don't pay attention to New York traffic, which is near gridlock at this hour. There's a reason most city dwellers don't own cars. That reason is not they are multi millionaires who work for one of the top three richest companies in America and fucked the bosses wife. That sounds personal because it is.
We get to the high rise, which has its own parking garage. Buy in alone to these places are in the millions. But for entertainers and worse the invisible elite? The businessmen, faceless doctors and lawyers, the mega wealthy, it's worth the investment especially travelling some two hundred days a year like my dad does. Man bun and round nerd glasses, torn jeans, and black t-shirt he fits in at any Starbucks, and his face doesn't grace the cover of tabloids unless his bastard son gets thrown into an inpatient clinic.
We get on an elevator, my dad keys us on with a card. I go and lean in the corner, staring off. He keys in the familiar code, complete with thumb print. The route and ride is familiar.
"My thumb still work?" I ask.
"Should," he says, staring at his phone, he has been this whole time.
We get off at the appropriately high floor. He owns the floor there's like a little hall outside. Complex concierge will bring up any dinner or drug delivery. That's my medical drugs but I'm sure they'd do the other kind.
He lets us in with a key. Got to love tech superstars, the TV is smart but that's about it and it's on a closed wifi network.
I walk in, dropping my bag.
"Bedroom to the right, I got your stuff—well when your mom brought all that to the hospital," he says, gesturing to the bag I just dropped.
"I didn't get to have it," I say, walking towards the room.
"I ordered pizza, do you want to shower?" He asks.
"When do the drugs get here?" I ask, rubbing my face with a palm.
"Probably twenty minutes."
"Okay," I say, going to the room.
"I'm going to bring you clothes, I'll throw them on the bed."
"I don't want your stuff."
A couple of suitcases are piled by the bed, and some boxes stacked in a corner. But I find it's made up for a guest, with towels laid out. I strip off the hospital clothes and find myself sobbing bitterly. This isn't even home and everything hurts.
I smash my fist into the shower wall, water on hot as it goes. It will be better. Take the pills. It will be better.
I get out and towel off, having no idea how clean I got. I'll shower tomorrow.
On the bed my dad threw a bamboo sweatsuit, black, and a pair of silk boxers.
"You dress like a 1%er," I mutter, putting it on anyway. I do attempt to be more real. Or I don't. I don't really know I don't even want to be here. Here being the planet earth.
I get changed and come out. My dad is sitting on the couch, still glued to his phone, paper Walgreens bag of pills sitting on the table. There's also a couple of boxes of pizza, and bottles of artisan water.
He glances up then says nothing, probably expecting a smart remark. I'm sure I'd have one so I bite back the smart remark that he can talk to me.
I go to the freezer and open it. Those stupid drummel waffle cone things. I always used to raid his freezer for those. He has a new box. I rip it open and take two, then come back to sit on the sofa.
"Dessert first?" My dad asks, accepting one of the cones.
"Meds hit my stomach, especially emergency Elliot-tranquilizers," I say, finding the appropriate bottle. I shake out two.
"Ah," he says, "Anything you want to talk about?"
"Just this day. You don't have to do lines from therapy," I say.
"Okay," he looks back down at his phone.
"You working?" I ask.
"Not anymore," he puts down the phone, "What's up?"
"Again you don't have to do lines from therapy," I sigh.
"No, I just told your mother to go fuck her self. Well, in corporate vernacular, so," he smiles grimly, "Meeting's over. I'm not budging on our launch date."
"Hm," I don't follow company stuff. I never did. Now it's not even my inheritance. So.
"I'm aware you're probably tired now, but, do you want to talk about anything? If you do, we can talk, if you want to vegetate for a few days not in that damned place, then," he shrugs a bit, looking at the silent TV. "I'm sure you want normal, we both could use it for a bit."
"One thing," I say, holding up my phone. I turn it off. "One question then we save that bull shit for therapy, all right?"
"Good with me," he nods, "Go on."
"I know for the court battle, and associated therapy, and not pissing off your oldest friend despite screwing his wife—you said you didn't know. Did you know?" I ask.
He sighs.
"Come on, did either of you know?" I ask, "I just want to know if you knew."
"Of course I knew you —you could be mine. You look more like me than him," he scoffs, like disgusted with himself as well, "When she knew she was pregnant she told me that you weren't mine, the timing, of it. Next time I asked. You were six months old, you looked me even back then, not like me, but I'd seen photos of myself at that age, we were identical, and I asked her again if you could be mine, I mean, we knew you could be mine there was the affair. But. She promised me you were not."
"You didn't believe her," I say.
"I knew we were having an affair yes, she said you were not. I'm not excusing it here, El," he says, "Clearly I was having the affair with your mother yes you were, always possible."
"What would you have done? If she'd said yes?" I ask.
"I don't know now. She wasn't going to leave him, too much money in that. Not for me," it's very disgusting but he is poor compared to them. "I'd have told you the truth. At some point. Or something."
"Okay," I say.
"You think she knew?" He asks.
"Yes, Stephen," I nod. I knew I was different. Not in a bad way, not at first. My mother's favorite. I always got preference over my brothers. I was always coddled the most I didn't even like it I didn't know why I was special. Then it came out, lo and behold I'm her love child she liked me best because I'm the secret.
"You and your brothers, coming over here after school, let yourselves in and raid the freezer and play on the unreleased games," he smiles a bit, looking at the controllers, "I used to pretend you were mine. You'd be sitting there laughing and do something like me, and I'd have that thought, oh what if he were? But I ignored it."
"So what we learned is trust those gut feelings, and don't trust the married woman we're screwing," I say.
"Glad I could serve as an example," he says, but he smiles, "Your mother was married. It was complicated. She may very well have wanted to deny it."
"She named me Elliot because ET is your favorite movie."
"She told you that?!"
"No, it's obvious NOW," I growl.
"She likes it too—?"
"She hates it."
"All right, I was having an affair with her even after you were born—,"
"I think you still are," I say.
"As of two hours ago I don't think she wants to be with me anymore," he says, checking his phone, "No, past tense."
"Over a product?" I ask.
"I'm not saying it won't be temporary," he says, "This is probably outside the realm of safe outside of therapy but."
"I don't care, I'm already here," I say, leaning back on the sofa.
"You look tired."
"Hard to sleep in that place, sorry I didn't eat your pizza," I say.
"I think you're allowed ice cream for dinner," he smiles, offering me another bottle of water. I take it.
"You just saying that?" I ask.
"What? Ice cream for dinner?"
"No, thinking I was yours," I ask.
"No. In a, fuck up my life and yours kind of way, I wanted it to be true. I held you that day. And it was—the only photo I have of my father and I, was about that age. Like less than a year old, he was holding me, I was smiling, out in our yard or something. Anyway. I held you and you had been crying all day—and you smiled at me. I asked your mother she said you couldn't be mine. And I wanted it to be true, I was jealous, I wanted you to be my son," he looks down at his hands then up at me again. "I didn't want to do this to you. Obviously. And I don't know if it would have made it any better back then. Your mother was probably right. Let it go. It was over, you were his on paper. You probably would have been happier being none the wiser."
"I'm never happy," I say.
"Not even—?" He looks at the paper bag of pills.
"Takes the pain away," I say, shrugging.
"I'm sorry."
"Well that part isn't your fault. Science hasn't gotten that far yet," I say, taking out the rest of the pills.
"You want to watch something?" He asks, nodding at the TV, "I'm going to be working a few more hours. You can lay out here I'll go in the room."
"No. I should probably curl up and let all this hit," I say, picking up my phone.
"Okay. I'm going to wake you up for your pills."
"Looking forward to it, Stephen," I say, standing up, "You went help putting this away?"
"No. I'm going to be up anyway, I have to make some calls."
"Okay," I say, "Does my mom know I'm here?"
"I told her the fire and closure of your facility happened after I checked you out," he says, "I don't know if she believed me."
"I don't care," I say.
"Hm, nor do I at the moment. Get some sleep all right? Come and wake me up if you need to talk," he says, picking up the pizza boxes that neither of us touched.
I go into the room and curl up in bed. Metallica is the only thing that will put me to sleep when I feel this miserable, so I turn that on. When I wake in the night I've tugged the headphones from my ears and I'm listening to the muted sounds of the city. In the middle of a king sized bed. On silk sheets. Perfectly comfortable. I really am out of that place.
"Now it's time to find you," I say, looking at phone. My chat history with Lucas. Ending the day the students went missing. I'd told him I was staying out of school. family stuff. I was out of the hospital. He had asked if I was okay. I said okay I'd text him when I got the phone back. Then I did. And I did. And he never answered. "What happened to you?"