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These things happen.
It wasn’t a safe job. A cop spent a lot of time around violent, desperate people. It was inevitable that sometimes, things went wrong. Hell, even Edgeworth had been in mortal peril from time to time, and he was just a lawyer. It was the cost of living in polite society, of maintaining the rule of law. Sometimes, things went wrong.
When Edgeworth received the call that Gumshoe had been shot, that he had been rushed to the hospital, he was not as shocked as he would have been if they’d been librarians or accountants. It would do no good to anyone to panic, so he swallowed down the ache in the pit of his stomach. Gumshoe had made it to the hospital. They’d take care of him there. So he stayed calm, finished the paperwork he was working on, cleared off his desk, and cancelled an afternoon appointment before heading for his car.
Then he received the second call.
Edgeworth had been to enough funerals to develop opinions about how they were conducted, and he’d come to the conclusion that the whole thing was, well, it would be redundant to call it morbid, wouldn’t it? A room full of people all staring at a corpse on a pedestal. Dreadful.
Some funerals were full of fake tears and bullshit eulogies, praising a dead man no one really liked. He preferred those to the genuine grief that suffocated this room. Gumshoe had been well liked, cheerful and loyal. The funeral parlor was filled to capacity, with people left standing around the edges when they’d run out of chairs. In the front row, a large woman wept heavily, holding the hand of a teenage girl who was struggling to hold back her own tears. Gumshoe had mentioned a younger sister, once or twice, though Edgeworth had never met the man’s family. Edgeworth stood in the far back, silent.
He hated open caskets. It was almost a relief when the deceased was unpresentable, for whatever horrible reason. People would say, “He looks like he’s sleeping,” or, “She’s so peaceful.” That was never Edgeworth’s experience. He saw plenty of bodies, splattered on pavement or draped over balconies, eyes open in horror, mouths agape. That was death, raw. This, this spectacle, this was disgusting. To see Gumshoe, a man who had always been laughing and smiling and vivid, laid out in a box in a suit he’d never worn - it turned Edgeworth’s stomach. He was glad he’d skipped breakfast.
At one point, the large woman approached him. “My son would talk about you sometimes,” she said, her voice weak. “He admired you a great deal. He would tell me what a great man you were.”
Edgeworth swallowed hard. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, the kind of thing you were supposed to say to a grieving mother. Somehow he’d never come up with something better. “He was a good man.”
“He would have been happy you came.” Another ridiculous platitude. The dead couldn’t be happy about anything. The woman patted him on the forearm, as if he was the one who needed comfort, before moving on.
He managed to avoid Wright until the burial. It was sunny and warm, and he spotted him standing on the far side of the grave. The man was crying, tears running freely down his cheeks, but at least he had the dignity to do it quietly. Maya stood next to him, holding the hand of Pearl, who was sobbing into a handkerchief. Edgeworth wondered how old the girl actually was. The same age as he’d been at his first funeral, his father’s? She was old enough to understand, at least.
He stood there, in the crowd, while a priest droned on about the afterlife. He waited while Gumshoe’s mother and sister laid roses on the coffin. He clenched his jaw as the coffin was finally, slowly, lowered into the grave. And when the service was over, he left before anyone else could talk to him.
There was probably an informal memorial taking place in a cop bar somewhere, men mourning a lost colleague the way they’d want to be mourned, with beer and comradery, bawdy stories and heartfelt toasts. No one had invited Edgeworth.
Not that he would have gone; it wasn’t his place. He knew well enough when he wasn’t wanted. So after the funeral, he went home. It was a warm day, but he started a fire in his study anyway. Then he poured himself a glass of bourbon and settled into his armchair by the fire with a case file on his lap.
Thirty minutes later, the case file was unopened. The ice in his drink had melted, watering down the untouched bourbon. The fire had chewed through the logs he’d stacked in the grate and was starting to fade.
And Edgeworth could do nothing.
He stared at the fire with unfocused eyes. He had work to do; life goes on. And yet.
Gumshoe had been his partner for years. He wasn’t a great detective, but he had been a good and loyal partner. Maybe even a friend.
Edgeworth had lost people before. When he was young, his father. That had numbed him. More recently, the man who took him in and raised him. There was little grief there. In between, colleagues and acquaintances and men who he barely knew, but whose funerals he dutifully attended. None of those losses had given him this ache in his chest, this nausea in the pit of his stomach.
Gumshoe had been a near daily presence in his life. No matter what, he could always count on the oaf to be around, usually making a mess of things. He’d always been there. He’d shared in Edgeworth’s greatest victories and his worst failures. He’d been so proud whenever he found some helpful bit of evidence, so eager to please. He’d looked at Edgeworth with bright, cheerful eyes. No one else was ever as happy to see him. No one else ever looked at him that way.
No one would anymore.
He sat there, until long after the fire had burned down and died, until the sun set and the room grew dark, alone.
And life went on.
He was assigned a new partner within the week. He had trouble remembering the man’s name, which was probably just a force of habit. For so long, his partner had been Detective Gumshoe. It would take time to adjust to that not being the case. That was all.
The man who shot Gumshoe had been caught, and sent to trial, and immediately found guilty and sentenced. Edgeworth didn’t attend. He read about it in the papers the day after and felt oddly dissatisfied with the results. This man had taken Gumshoe’s life, and hadn’t even gained anything from it. He could have given himself up and been exactly where he was now, except that Gumshoe would still be alive. It added an extra layer of senselessness to it all.
It was two weeks later when there was a knock on the door to his office. His new partner poked his head through the door. “Hey, Mr. Edgeworth? Got a minute?”
Edgeworth didn’t look up from the paperwork on his desk. “What do you need?”
“Uh, actually, I got something for you.” He stepped into the room. In his hands was an old shoebox, worn on the edges. “Some of the guys were packing up Gumshoe’s apartment and they found this.”
He placed the box on Edgeworth’s desk. Edgeworth frowned at it and lifted off the lid. Inside, piled nearly to the top, lay dozens of white envelopes. Each one had the same blocky, heavy handwriting, reading “‘Mr. Edgeworth” or “Prosecutor Edgeworth” or sometimes just “Edgeworth.” As he reached for one, the detective said, “You might want to wait until you’re at home to read them. They’re, uh.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, that’s all. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
Edgeworth didn’t like the pitying look in the man’s eyes, or the tremble in his voice. He gently replaced the lid. “Thank you,” he said. “Is there anything else?”
“No, just that.” The man started to back out of the office. “Let me know if you need anything,” he repeated. “You can call me. I’m around. If you need anything.”
Edgeworth glared at the man until he bowed his head and fled. He pushed the box gently to the side of his desk and turned back to his paperwork. He couldn’t get it out of his mind, though, and kept glancing at it. Whatever was in there, it couldn’t have been good - but it wouldn’t do any good to speculate. He’d get to it in due time.
He wound up leaving early, the box tucked under his arm. The urge to open it up grew when he slid into the seat of his car and slammed the door behind him, but he suspected he’d regret it. He tucked it into the footwell of the passenger seat. A few minutes later, after almost swerving into a lamp post, he moved it out of sight behind the driver’s seat. By the time he reached his home his heart was pounding and he felt like he was on the verge of a panic attack. As he carried the box into his study he forced himself to breath deeply, counting between breaths. Only once he couldn’t hear his own pulse did he allow himself to open the box again.
The envelopes weren’t sealed. He picked one at random and gently extracted two folded sheets of paper from inside. The unlined paper was covered with blocky, messy lettering written with a heavy hand that left deep indents in the paper. Gumshoe’s writing. With a feeling of apprehension, Edgeworth began reading:
Dear Mr. Edgeworth,
You won’t believe what’s happening here, pal! Some guy impersonated Wright! See, Maggey (you remember Maggey, right?) got caught up in a murder again, and Wright defended her, but he lost and she got convicted! But obviously she didn’t do it, so I went to give Wright a piece of my mind and he said he hadn’t heard anything about it. Turns out some guy showed up in court pretending to be Wright, and he’s the one who got Maggey convicted! It’s been a real confusing couple days around here.
Edgeworth frowned. He remembered hearing about the incident, but he’d been overseas at the time. The rest of the letter seemed to be mostly a rambling summary of the case from Gumshoe’s point of view. Why had he written this? Edgeworth had certainly never seen it. What was the point? He tucked the letter back into the envelope, set it aside, and selected another one.
Dear Mr. Edgeworth,
Missile’s been kinda sick for the past few days. The vet says he should be okay but I’m still worried. A dog can’t tell you what hurts! Now I gotta figure out how to feed him pills.
This made no sense - Edgeworth had been here when Missile was sick. He’d suggested Gumshoe try wrapping the pills in a bit of cheese. It had worked, and in a week the dog was back to his old self. Why write him a letter about it? He grabbed another. This one had been stuffed into its envelope a bit roughly, and one corner was crumpled. Was this the one that had been read and inspired the warning to wait until he was home to start reading them? He smoothed it out.
Dear Mr. Edgeworth,
I miss you.
Edgeworth’s breathing stopped. That single line of messy text sat on the page, undeniable. He re-read it and it didn’t change, so he went on.
I guess that’s silly. You’ve only been gone for a couple weeks this time. And I bet you’re having a great time! I dunno what time it is over there. It’s night here. I bet you’re having breakfast in some fancy little café eating croysaunts and drinking fancy tea. That’s right where I always picture you, with a cute little teacup, the Eiffel Tower in the background. Just seems right.
Missile’s gone on business so I’m by myself tonight. It gets kinda lonely here sometimes! I mean I guess it’s a good thing that it’s not a big apartment or it’d feel even lonelier. I realized I hadn’t written you a letter in a while and it usually makes me feel better. I don’t think I have anything interesting to write about though.
I think you told me when you’d be back this time but I don’t remember exactly. I just remember that it seemed really far away. So I guess I just gotta wait. But you know I’ll be here when you get back.
Love, Dick Gumshoe
Edgeworth let out a shuddering breath. He realized his grip had tightened to the point of wrinkling the paper and released it, leaving creases where his fingers had started to bunch it up. He read it again, start to finish, slowly, half-hoping he’d missed something. But no, it was a simple letter, with a simple signature.
I miss you.
Love, Dick Gumshoe
He snatched one of the previous letters he’d skimmed and skipped to the end. There it was again.
Love, Dick Gumshoe
Edgeworth tried to force himself to stop trembling. He dug into the box, pulling a letter from deeper in the pile and ripping it from the envelope, going straight to the end.
Love you! Dick Gumshoe
He dropped the letter like it had burned him and stood, nearly knocking over his desk. The crystal decanter containing an aged bourbon on a table against the wall largely served as decoration. Now he took a few quick steps over and poured himself an ample serving. It burned his throat as he drained it. He coughed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and filled the glass again. Then he carried it back to his desk and sat heavily, staring at the box.
It had to be a joke. A weird, elaborate, complicated, detailed joke. Gumshoe had been writing him letters? Letters he never sent? Letters he signed “Love”? Gumshoe hadn’t - he couldn’t have - they weren’t - it didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. Gumshoe had been loyal, and kind, and brave, and trustworthy, but he hadn’t - couldn’t -
Edgeworth took another swig of the bourbon and started grabbing letters at random. He skimmed them, trying to find answers, and only came up with more questions.
Little Pearly’s school play was today, and she wanted me to come. She’s such a cute kid! And a real ferocious lion! I helped her with the roar, and she was the loudest for sure.
This black eye seems like it’s taking forever to heal, and I think it’s maybe making you look bad to be around me with my face all swollen up. But you haven’t said anything so maybe I’m just being weird! I’m putting ice on it anyway.
I wanted to get you this really nice mahogany desk set to replace the one that got blood all over it but I couldn’t afford it. By the time I save up for it I’m sure you’ll have a new one already but I think I’ll start anyway, so next time I find something nice for you I can get it.
They spanned years. Some of them were written days apart, some had months between them. Some were cheerful recounting of news from when he was overseas or away, and some covered events he’d been at but Gumshoe had never discussed with him. Not like he did in these letters. And peppered throughout, little phrases that made his heart skip.
Missing you today.
Thought about you.
Maybe I should tell you.
And every single one, signed, Love, Dick Gumshoe.
Love, Dick Gumshoe.
Love, Dick Gumshoe.
Love, love, love.
Edgeworth’s stomach lurched, and he washed the taste of bile in his throat down with the burn of the bourbon. No, it wasn’t a joke. It was all real, all in front of him, years and years of letters. Years and years of Gumshoe’s feelings, poured out on the page in stark black writing.
And Edgeworth had never known.
And now it was too late.
Edgeworth drained the glass again. He rose on feet already a little unsteady to grab the decanter and carried it over to his desk. He poured another drink, being so careful not to spill a drop on the letters. With the bourbon on hand to dull the throbbing developing in his chest, he selected the next letter and began to read.
Phoenix was a little nervous to show up at Edgeworth’s house unannounced. Edgeworth had been avoiding him, but hadn’t taken it personally. Edgeworth and Gumshoe had been close, and even though he acted tough Edgeworth had to have been taking it hard. He hadn’t gotten worried until he found out he hadn’t been to work in three days. Edgeworth never missed work. Phoenix had seen him go back to work the day after being shot. Something was seriously wrong. He’d tried to call but the only response was a text that just said “sick” (without capitalization or punctuation, which was another bad sign). So here he was, standing in front of Edgeworth’s door, waiting for an answer to his knock.
It took several minutes, during which time Phoenix knocked twice more and started considering how pissed Edgeworth would be about a broken window, before the door opened. The smell hit him first, like he’d just walked into a brewery. To say Edgeworth looked rough would be to say the surface of the sun looked hot. His hair was greasy and tangled. His eyes were red and underlined with bags so dark he looked like he’d been punched. He was only dressed in a wrinkled white button-down with a brown stain down the front and a pair of black slacks - no shoes, no vest, no cravat: practically naked. In one hand he clutched a piece of paper; he used the other to brace himself against the doorframe as he gazed dolefully up at Phoenix.
“Jesus,” Phoenix muttered, taking an involuntary step back. “What happened? Are you alright?”
Edgeworth laughed, short and rough. He shoved the paper at Phoenix, who took it reflexively, and retreated into his house. Phoenix took the open door as the only invitation he was going to get and followed.
Edgeworth’s living room was as much of a wreck as he was. Papers were scattered around, all over the floor. Most of them were arrayed in a wide half-circle around an open spot where a half-empty bottle of bourbon waited for Edgeworth, who was picking his way carefully through the maze of papers.
“What the hell is this?” asked Phoenix. He’d come here out of concern for Edgeworth’s welfare but he couldn’t have imagined anything like this.
Edgeworth sat next to his bottle, uncapped it, and took a swig while gesturing vaguely at the paper in Phoenix’s hand. Phoenix looked down and finally read it.
Dear Mr. Edgeworth,
Happy birthday! I hope you had a good one. I forgot you weren’t here and bought a cupcake for you. Got a little bummed out when I realized, but I gave it to Pearl and told her it was for your birthday and she was really excited. She said to make sure I tell you happy birthday from her too!
“That’s one of the earlier ones,” Edgeworth said, gazing blankly at the papers arrayed in front of him. “He didn’t put any dates, so it’s mostly guesswork, but I’ve got most of them sorted.”
Phoenix skipped down to the end. Love, Dick Gumshoe. “He sent you letters?”
“No. They found the box in his things.” Edgeworth reached to his left and picked up the letter closest to him. “Pearl’s writing a letter to her mom,” he read, his voice oddly monotone, “because her mom’s, you know, in jail for murder. She asked me to write one too to somebody I missed so of course I picked you. And maybe they had a point, because I do feel a little better. I hope you’re having a good day.” He set it back down. “It’s signed with ‘Love.’ They all are.”
Phoenix stared. It was all he could do. Edgeworth was slumped in the middle of the floor, surrounded by letters from a dead man. “Are… are you okay?” he asked weakly.
Edgeworth laughed again. “Am I okay? Am I okay?” He grabbed another letter and started reading again, almost frantically, without pausing between sentences. “Dear Mr. Edgeworth, I hope you’re having a good day, I was thinking about you, I know it’s the anniversary of your dad’s death and I wish you were here so I could bring you some tea and help cheer you up. Love, Dick Gumshoe.” He tossed that letter down and picked up another. “Dear Mr. Edgeworth, I think I might tell you next time I see you, but I’m a little drunk so I’m probably feeling braver than I should be, love, Dick Gumshoe.” He switched letters again, his voice cracking. “Dear Mr. Edgeworth, I love you, there, I said it, well I guess I wrote it down, I don’t know if I’ll ever actually say it but this works too, love, Dick Gumshoe, love, Dick Gumshoe, love, Dick Gumshoe.” Tears had started flowing down his cheeks. He dropped the letter and grabbed the liquor bottle. “Am I okay, Wright? Am I okay? No, I am not okay. I’m very not okay.”
Phoenix picked a path through the letters, carefully avoiding stepping on them, until he reached Edgeworth who was once again lifting the bottle to his lips. “Come on,” he said, reaching down and grabbing his arm. “Let’s get you cleaned up and we can talk about it, okay?”
Edgeworth pulled himself out of Phoenix’s grip and lunged for another letter. “Dear Mr. Edgeworth,” he started, swaying slightly, “You seemed really upset today and you wouldn’t tell me why. I hope it wasn’t something I did wrong but if it was I’m sorry. I hope you feel better tomorrow. Love, Dick Gumshoe.” He dropped it. “It wasn’t. I don’t know when this was but it wasn’t something he did, I’m sure of that. It was never something he did.”
Phoenix knelt next to him, quietly tucking the bottle of booze out of arm’s reach. “How about some water, huh?” he said. He couldn’t possibly begin to help with the letters, he had no idea where to even start with that, but he could keep Edgeworth alive. Hopefully. Edgeworth shrugged him off and reached for another letter.
“Dear Mr. Edgeworth,” he said, and Phoenix couldn’t bring himself to pull the paper out of his hands, “you came back from Europe today to take over for Wright because he got sick. I’m real glad to see you, but if I’m being honest, I kinda wish - “ He choked on a sob. “I kinda wish you’d come back for me. Love, Dick Gumshoe.”
Phoenix gave up on dragging Edgeworth away and settled for sitting next to him and resting a hand on his back. He could feel Edgeworth’s body shaking as the man fought to hold back his sobs.
“I never knew,” he said, hunched over. “He never said anything. Why didn’t he ever say anything? Why didn’t he tell me?” He grabbed the nearest letter, glanced at it, then tossed it away. “I never knew. I never - how long? How many years? How many letters?” His voice was taking on a desperate edge, growing louder. “He never said anything. All he had to do was send one, just one, but instead he wrote it down and hid it away in a goddamn box and I never knew!”
Edgeworth was fully weeping now, tears dripping off his chin. Phoenix reached out and pulled him into a hug and Edgeworth actually accepted, leaning in to bury his face against Phoenix’s chest. They stayed that way for several minutes until his muffled sobs died down and his breathing calmed.
“Why?” he mumbled.
“Why what?” Phoenix replied.
“Why didn’t he say anything? Why didn’t he send the letters?” His fingers clutched at the fabric of Phoenix’s jacket. “Why me?”
“I don’t think I can answer those.”
“Can you answer this?” Edgeworth sat up and looked at Phoenix with pleading eyes. “What am I supposed to do now? How am I supposed to deal with this? How am I supposed to - “ His voice was breaking again and he looked around. The liquor bottle was hidden from his line of sight and he just slumped his shoulders again. “He loved me. And he’s gone now and I never knew.”
“Did you…” Phoenix hesitated, not sure if he was asking the right question. “If you had known, before - what would you have done?”
Edgeworth stared at him blankly. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I - I’m not sure. I can’t…” His head drooped. “I can’t think about that right now.”
Phoenix nodded. The answer was clear enough, but Edgeworth didn’t need to know that. What he did need was a shower and a nap. “I think,” he said, hooking his arm under Edgeworth’s, “that if Gumshoe were here now, he’d be getting you to bed.”
“What do you know,” Edgeworth growled, but he allowed Phoenix to lift him from the ground and extract him from the mess of paper littering his living room floor. He guided him to the bedroom, where Edgeworth flopped face down onto the bed. Phoenix struggled to pull the blanket out from under him and wound up haphazardly folding the loose portion over him, which didn’t do a great job of covering him.
“Can’t sleep,” said Edgeworth, curling onto his side. “Tried.”
Phoenix sat on the edge of the bed. “Try again? C’mon.” He rubbed Edgeworth’s shoulder and earned a sleepy glare. “Humor me. Just close your eyes for ten minutes.”
“Nobody asked you,” Edgeworth grumbled, but he lowered his head anyway. Phoenix waited, and it was only a few minutes before Edgeworth’s breathing grew calm and steady. Carefully, Phoenix crept out of the room, leaving the sleeping Edgeworth behind. He closed the door behind him before sighing.
He wasn’t sure what exactly he’d expected to find when he got here, but it sure wasn’t this. The letters themselves didn’t really surprise him. He’d seen Gumshoe and Edgeworth together. The way Gumshoe talked about him, fought for him, cared for him - it had seemed obvious to Phoenix. Maybe to everybody except Edgeworth. And finding out like this… couldn’t get much worse.
When Edgeworth woke up, he’d get him to take a shower and put on some clean clothes. Based on the amount of bourbon left in the bottle he’d need some painkillers, too. Probably hadn’t been eating, either, so something healthy would be a good idea. Phoenix began to walk towards the kitchen to see what the options were but stopped when he reached the scattered mess of letters. He crouched down and picked one up at random.
Dear Mr. Edgeworth,
You seemed like you were in a really good mood today! You wouldn’t tell me anything about it, but that’s okay. I was just glad to see you happy. I noticed you’ve been kinda down lately, more than usual. If you ever wanna talk I’d be happy to listen. I think you know that. I hope you do.
Phoenix let his eyes flick to the bottom - Love, Dick Gumshoe. Carefully, he started gathering together the letters, keeping them roughly in the order they’d been laid out on the floor. Edgeworth would want them when he woke up. He’d need a shower and some aspirin and a good meal, but he’d need these too. And he’d probably need some counseling, and time, and a friend. At least Phoenix could give him that. And the aspirin.