Part Four
Edgeworth had traded a dream for a nightmare.
He sat behind his desk, surrounded by envelopes and letters and print-outs of text messages. He leafed through the stack of small photos, ones of himself as the subject, taken from a distance, taken without his knowledge, and he resisted the urge to cradle his head in his arms and slump over.
Gumshoe was late. Usually Edgeworth would be annoyed at the detective's tardiness, but at the moment he was grateful for a chance to collect his demeanor. He could scarcely afford to lose any more dignity in front of his subordinate with more embarrassed, red-faced requests, like during their meeting earlier in the week.
How had things come to this?
The answer was obvious: through foolishness and weakness. Foolishness, because he wanted something he could not have; and weakness, because he gave in to a poor, poisoned substitute.
Edgeworth remembered coming home that night a month ago, after he wrote the note and drove away, certain in the knowledge that he would never see Christopher again. Splayed out in his own bed, staring at the ceiling, he questioned himself again and again for his decision. After a night of fitful sleep he'd scheduled an appointment with his physician – one could never be too careful – and spent the rest of the weekend preparing for his next trial, trying to find solace in routine.
The first letter was in his apartment mailbox on Monday morning, plain and unassuming.
He'd hardly given it a second thought as he picked up his mail and carried it with him to his office. When his secretary brought him his tea and the morning's messages, he noticed another ordinary envelope tucked in amongst the official mail. Curious, he held the two envelopes side-by-side: they were the same, both addressed to him in the same handwriting with no return listing.
A sinking feeling settled into his stomach, as though some part of him already knew what the envelopes contained. He opened the one from his apartment first.
Mister Edgeworth,
Or shall I call you Miles? You never mentioned a preference. I too had an enjoyable evening with you, and I was greatly disappointed to find you gone in the morning.
I believe there is a connection between us, and I would like us to meet again.
-Christopher
Edgeworth's face turned ashen, all the blood draining from it, and he felt his heart pound with irritated fury. He had explicitly told the man it was to be one night, just once! There had been no promises, no arrangements or commitments. Christopher had seemed intelligent enough to understand such a simple constraint.
More importantly, how had the man found his home address? Information like that was kept unlisted, in case of a retaliatory strike from a suspect or criminal. He tapped his fingers on the polished wood of his desk, considering. He would need to speak with his apartment's manager to find out if the letter was delivered personally or if it arrived with the rest of the post.
…And what did he mean, connection?! He recalled, with his face suddenly turning a deep red, one session of intimacy followed by awkwardness. Whatever chemistry existed between them had dissipated once they resolved the tension. They hardly knew each other, had nothing substantial to talk about. He felt no compunction to 'get to know' the man any better, had no desire to pursue a relationship with him, or with anyone at all. Not until…
Edgeworth sighed, set the first letter aside and carefully opened the next, the one delivered to the prosecutor's building. He expected another short note, which there was, but it was also accompanied by a pair of tickets to an up-scale wine tasting. Frowning, he unfolded the letter.
Miles,
Please accompany me tonight. I promise it will be an enjoyable evening.
-Christopher
Apparently the man did not understand the meaning of the word once. Edgeworth pushed the tickets back into the envelope along with the letter, and stashed both envelopes into his desk drawer. He had no intentions of meeting with the man again, and his absence should send the message clearly.
During his lunch hour, he questioned Hannah about the letter. It had been just a part of the general mail; no one had handed it to her in person. Down on the first floor, the mail sorter only shrugged when he asked how the letter arrived; it had been in the big cart of post, like any other letter or package. On the phone, his apartment manager referred him to the postal worker who handled the complex's deliveries, who in turn had no particular memory of any of the mail she delivered. He was frustrated – it was as though a ghost had dropped the letters off to him, unseen and unnoticed.
That evening Edgeworth marked the time with his paperwork, silently noting the minutes until the time he was invited to meet with Christopher. The hour came, and went. He let out a small sigh of relief, feeling the tension in his shoulders lessen. His refusal to meet for a second time should be enough to dissuade any future correspondence. In a small display of self-comfort he closed his laptop, put away his work folders, and spent the rest of the night watching his premium collection of Steel Samurai episodes, where the bad guys were obvious and the universe obeyed simple rules.
There was another letter for him the next morning.
Miles,
You left me waiting and wanting last night. Are you feeling shy? Or are you just playing hard to get?
Perhaps my next offer will be more enticing.
-Christopher
He fumed the entire drive to work, intensely annoyed that the man could not take a hint. Even worse, he had no direct way to contact Christopher. He needed to be more explicit in his rejection, and the only manner in which to do so would be to meet him in person, to take him up on one of his offers. His stomach churned at the prospect.
In some strange way, what Edgeworth hated most of all was the informal manner of address in the letters. Miles. Few people ever called him just by his first name anymore. It was a name he left behind when he moved to Germany as a child, a reminder of all the pleasant things in his life that had been so violently torn from him. Now he was just Edgeworth, or Mister Edgeworth, or Prosecutor Edgeworth, or even Sir.
If he were called by his first name now, it was typically from condescending suspects or witnesses trying to patronize or talk down to him, like that despicable Redd White. Usually he only heard his first name paired with his last, such as when Franziska addressed him; she had called him by his full name ever since he was first introduced to her three-year-old self. With few exceptions, he preferred last names. They provided a wall of emotional distance.
To have Christopher refer to him by his first name felt like some kind of breach, like he was prodding a part of his past, a part of his heart that no one had the right to touch. There was no one with whom he could be simply 'Miles' anymore. It was a lonely thought.
But not an accurate one. His hands gripped the steering wheel reflexively. Wright still occasionally called him by his first name. And when he did, it did not feel like an unwelcome intrusion – quite the opposite.
The drive left him with a sense of melancholy, and a deep irritation.
On his office's floor, he confronted his secretary. "Is there another letter for me, Miss Fright?" His words came out more harshly than he intended, and he tried to give his secretary an apologetic look as she handed him his office mail, tapping the plain envelope on top.
The envelope tore with a satisfying rip as he opened it in his office. But any expectation of what new 'enticement' awaited him inside was shattered as two small movie tickets tumbled out.
They were for the premiere of the new Fullmetal Samurai film.
Edgeworth felt a cold wave of nausea overtake him. It must be a coincidence. Surely. But he did not believe in coincidences. With slightly trembling hands, he unfolded the letter.
Miles,
I look forward to seeing this with you. Perhaps you can introduce me to the whole franchise.
I am very eager to see you again.
-Christopher
His eyes narrowed. Nothing in the message directly indicated that Christopher had been spying on Edgeworth. However, the wording was ambiguous enough to leave room for doubt.
Edgeworth considered what steps he should take. He believed his privacy had been violated, but he had no proof. He could file a harassment charge, but nothing in the messages presented a sufficient danger. Additionally, this was a private, personal manner. Edgeworth still remembered the rumors that circulated about him; he was a popular subject for legal gossip, even after his name was cleared. If word spread that he had a stalker, a male stalker, one with whom he'd had relations, his reputation would plummet.
No. He would need to handle this personally.
At home, he composed his own letter to Christopher, which he left in his mailbox overnight.
Christopher,
Your offers are flattering but unnecessary. I desire no further interactions with you. I will not meet with you. I have no wish to remain in correspondence with you.
Do not contact me again.
-M.E.
His letter was still there in the morning, but opened. Did that mean Christopher had read it? Was this proof the man delivered his letters himself? As he picked up his mail, he vowed to speak with the manager about installing a security camera in the mail room.
At his office Hannah gave him a trio of new envelopes, along with a large pot of tea. He shredded his own letter as he tore into the first one.
Miles,
What can I do to win you back? I want to see you again. I've never felt this way before. It was fate we met. We're meant to be together, can't you see?
-Christopher
The second envelope was thicker, and as he opened it several different papers tumbled out: invitations to the theatre, art galleries, restaurant reservations, even open airline vouchers. There was no letter.
The handwriting on the third letter was a bit messier, as though it were written hastily.
Miles,
Pick something, anything – I'll take you anywhere, do anything for you. Just meet me again, please. We're so good together, we're perfect.
-Christopher
A shudder crept up Edgeworth's spine. Christopher sounded borderline disturbing. The man had seemed so put-together, somewhat aloof and charming at the hotel. Edgeworth was beginning to sense that it had been an act, a façade to hide an overeager, clinging personality. Or one that was more desperate and dangerous than he'd anticipated.
More worrisome was the scope of the gifts. How could one person procure admission to so many different venues on such short notice? Did Christopher have connections in high places? Even Edgeworth, as a High Prosecutor, as the once most celebrated prosecutor in the nation, would be hard-pressed to acquire such a variety of invitations in a limited time. Maybe Christopher received such gifts in copious amounts, enough to stockpile and distribute on a whim? Or perhaps it was something less legitimate: the tickets could be counterfeits.
Edgeworth shook his head; probable stalking, harassment, and possible counterfeiting or some other nefarious means to goods. Christopher was accruing a list of charges, and yet he was unreachable. Or at least, Edgeworth knew of no way to contact him first, and he refused to meet under the pretense of accepting one of Christopher's offers.
He tried to recall the details of that night, specifically what little information he'd learned about Christopher himself. Edgeworth closed his eyes in thought, tapping his finger against his arm as he went through the facts one by one.
His full name was Christopher Banks. An elegant name, but also a depressingly common one.
He was an executive at Three-Fifths Bank – a vice president of business strategy, or some sort of unwieldy title. The bank might have a listing for him.
He had been drinking in the Verona lounge at the Gatewater Hotel. The lounge might have a record for a credit card.
Edgeworth made a note on his laptop so that he could search for information at home. He would not let the man interfere with his work. After the day's trial, in which Edgeworth had to admit he had been more ruthless than usual, he began his pursuit in earnest.
There were several listings for Christopher Banks in the Los Angeles area, and more if he extended the scope to the surrounding cities. The number expanded to several dozens if he included variations of the name, such as Chris or just the initial C. It was impossible for Edgeworth to pinpoint which address he needed.
He could not obtain an official employee roster from the bank without a warrant. Of the likely sketchy employee listings offered by third-rate websites, which he ran the risk of contracting a virus just by browsing, none of them contained a listing for a Christopher Banks.
The staff at the Gatewater were much more forthcoming with information. Unfortunately, Christopher had paid for his drinks and other purchases in cash, and there was no record of him having stayed at the hotel.
By the time Edgeworth finally crawled into his sheets, he was exhausted and even more frustrated.
More letters followed, delivered only to his office once Edgeworth had sternly persuaded his apartment manager to install a security camera or face charges of negligence. He ignored most of them, setting them directly in his desk drawer without bothering to open them. Of the ones he did skim, they contained the same tone: desperate and pleading.
And then Wright brought one of the envelopes to him.
Over the past week his world had narrowed to trials, paperwork, and harassment. It was the first time he had seen Wright since the night of that incident, the one that led to this current predicament. Edgeworth felt that pang of longing, as he stood there staring at Wright in the doorway; here was a person he could trust, with whom he shared interests and a history, someone attractive and honest and loyal beyond measure. The very person he'd tried to put out of his mind, only to have him plague it even more.
He had tried to contain his surprise at Wright's visit, tried to deflect his friend's curiosity about the letters, tried to keep his heart beating normally. Wright had the uncanny ability to show up when Edgeworth's limits were stretched thin, or more precisely, when he most needed a friend. Despite the sudden intrusion, he had been grateful to see that goofy grin, to see those blue eyes filled with warmth.
That visit still intrigued him. Wright's behavior had been confusing – even now he was not sure if the attorney had asked him for a friendly dinner, or a date, or something in between, or if it was just his own desires coloring his memory. He remembered that look on Wright's face as he grasped the prosecutor's arm, remembered the warmth of his hand, remembered thinking about the attorney later that night, in the privacy of his own bed, and wondering if he would ever put his friend out of his heart.
After that day, the calls began.
The first time the caller identification had displayed 'unknown caller,' Edgeworth had frowned slightly. His number was state-issued; besides other government administrators, only those to whom he gave his contact information should be able to reach him. He answered, wary.
"Miles Edgeworth speaking."
"Finally, a chance to talk with you."
He knew that voice. Had heard that voice over a week ago, had heard it speak in friendly tones and heard it groan with pleasure, and to hear it now made his blood run cold. Edgeworth quickly swiveled around in his office chair, peering down through the window as though he could see the man staring up at him from the street so far below.
"…Got you speechless, I see."
Christopher's voice was mocking, no longer holding quite the pleasant quality he remembered. It sounded icier, tinted with anger.
"I told you to never contact me again."
Edgeworth could be colder, could let the fury be transparent in his reply.
There was a laugh at the other end of the line: not an open, good-natured kind of laugh, like the ones Wright or Maya Fey would often give; or an anxious laugh, like how Wright would nervously chuckle in court; this laugh was dry and sardonic, sounding not-at-all amused.
"I don't think you mean that. Don't you remember how good we were? How we talked, how we connected, how we made each other writhe and moan?"
Edgeworth felt his face heat up with embarrassment, fueling his outrage. "I don't know how you got this number, but I want you to listen to me now, closely: never call me again. Never contact me again. Stay away from me, or I will be forced to take legal action."
There was an ominous silence.
"I don't think you understand what you're giving up so quickly." The voice slipped into a lower, darker register. "But don't worry – you'll change your mind."
Christopher abruptly hung up, leaving Edgeworth staring at his phone, numb. His attempts at redialing were met with long, unanswered rings.
He received another call that evening.
"Come meet me at the Gatewater again. We'll do it just how you like it. I'll prove to you that we're meant to be together."
And another, as he was going to sleep.
"I'm waiting for you. Why aren't you here? Are you alone? Are you with someone else?"
Edgeworth hung up each time without reply.
He awoke the next morning to his phone ringing.
"Don't want you to wake up alone. I'll be sure to meet you when you're done with your trial."
Edgeworth kept his composure as he stood in the courtroom, making his objections and his arguments with meticulous calm, with icy precision. He very carefully ignored the gallery, kept his eyes and his focus on the judge and the defense and the uncooperative witnesses the attorney called to the stand. No one paid him any heed as he lingered after the guilty verdict, slowly packing his briefcase. And when Gumshoe descended from the gallery, where he'd been watching after his dismissal from the witness stand, the detective didn't think it at all strange that the prosecutor followed him to the police station.
Another call, more incensed than the previous ones.
"Do you think I'm not good enough for you? Are you so stuck-up and arrogant? Give me a chance."
And another.
"Don't be a selfish prick. I've got everything you need."
When Edgeworth finally stopped answering calls from the unknown number, he started receiving calls from different numbers, each one unidentified. The smooth, careful speech Christopher used when they first met had degraded to rough, petty taunts. The calls started coming in the middle of the night.
"I know all about you, Miles Edgeworth. I know the rumors, I know your past. I have secrets, too, things I'll only tell you."
"What was it like in Germany? Sprichst du Deutsch? "
"I'm thinking about you right now."
Eventually Edgeworth stopped answering his phone at all, letting his calls forward to voicemail. But he still checked his messages regularly, and still heard Christopher's voice, twisted and poisonous.
"Answer your phone. What if I was dying on the other end? What if you were dying?"
"That tea you drink is supposed to improve virility. We should test it out."
"It's that other guy, isn't it? The one you can't get out of your head. You're with him now, aren't you?"
"I'll make you forget him."
The language was coarser in the texts.
No one can have you. No one else can fuck you.
Is it the detective? You've known each other a long time. He'd be a big, clumsy fuck.
Or maybe it's that lawyer. Got a savior complex? I'll save you, and fuck you, and make you mine.
Maybe that Interpol agent. He looks rough – you like it rough? Like to beg like a dog?
Why don't you answer me, you whore?!
The strain of the constant harassment was starting to take its toll on Edgeworth's health. He was losing sleep, losing focus, losing any semblance of possessing a sympathetic personality. He was snapping at coworkers, at the witnesses, his patience whittled to a mere nub. Even Gumshoe gave him more hangdog looks which, once he considered it, he hadn't seen much on the detective since he began dating Miss Byrde. He started avoiding unnecessary contact, preferring to be alone until this whole ordeal ceased.
Finally he called in to his secretary, stating that he was taking a day to work from home. He would use that day and the weekend to prepare for his next trial in peace, locked in his study with his phone out of sight and hopefully out of mind.
Of course, that would be the day Wright knocked on his door.
Like a foolish, foolish idiot, he had let Wright in. And Wright saw the text and asked for answers. How could he ignore his friend when Wright stood so close and promised his help, promised to always help him? When he looked at him with such naked concern? When all he wanted to do was pull Wright close and confess everything, all the fury and longing and hopelessness he felt?
How could he face Wright again?
He would never forget that look on Wright's face, when he finally divulged what happened that night – when Wright finally learned what a weak, wretched fool Edgeworth had been. He could practically see the attorney consider him in a new light, could watch the shock etch across his features. He had expected Wright to think less of him, but he had not anticipated just how disappointed in him the attorney would be.
Wright had once said he admired the prosecutor; how could he look up to a man who got himself into such a mess? Any esteem he might have had with Wright was surely eradicated. He deserved the man's scorn.
The hope he still harbored was almost thoroughly crushed, until Wright finally gave him a measure of comfort. He was ashamed at his weakness, beaten down by the harassment and Wright's disappointment. Then suddenly Wright was so close, enough to feel the warmth from his body, to smell his cotton shirt and the scent of his skin, to feel like he could breathe freely for the first time in weeks, and then Wright was grinning and reassuring him once more. Edgeworth had felt so relieved, so grateful, that he could not help but touch Wright in return, feel the warmth and strength of his hand; and his barriers were so battered he did not censor himself and he called him Phoenix.
And just like that Wright had smiled, soft and sincere, and his eyebrows turned up and a hopeful, nostalgic expression appeared on his face, and he called him Miles, and for a second Edgeworth believed everything might work out.
Two days later Edgeworth received the first photograph.
His phone had sounded its inane message alert and he picked it up, preparing for another tirade in a text. Instead he found himself looking at a picture of… himself, walking to his private garage that morning for work. Edgeworth stared unblinkingly at his phone, his mouth slightly agape, as he realized the harassment had escalated yet again.
A moment later a text message arrived.
Up bright and early. Such a diligent worker.
The words seemed innocuous, and somehow that made them more unsettling.
More pictures arrived throughout the day, photos taken during the previous weeks. Edgeworth was the subject in each of them, doing some mundane act: walking to the courthouse, entering the prosecutor's building. Photos of him speaking with Gumshoe outside the police station; unlocking his apartment door; a particularly unnerving shot of him from his kitchen window at his sink.
Some of them were accompanied by messages:
You speak with him for every case, don't you?
You look amazing. Want to fuck you in that car.
Do you know how easy it is to pick a lock?
Other pictures were sent alone, leaving him to ponder any deeper meaning behind them.
The next day he remembered Wright's words, quashed his pride as much as he was able, and arranged for a private meeting with Gumshoe in his office. With deep breaths and a glare that would have broken a mirror, he informed the detective of the harassment he had endured and his wish to file a restraining order.
Gumshoe had been surprisingly understanding. Though Edgeworth was certain he was blushing and that his words were harsh, Gumshoe stood straight and confident – perhaps even angry himself, since the detective had been mentioned in a few messages.
"I won't tell a soul, pal – I mean, Sir. This is private, and we'll catch them quick as we can."
The detective merely raised his bushy eyebrows when Edgeworth mentioned that the harasser, or stalker, was a man, but made no comment. Either Gumshoe did not realize the implication or he chose not to say anything, or perhaps he didn't view it as an important detail, only caring that some dirtbag was making his boss miserable in an illegal way.
"If someone was doing this to Maggey, I don't know if I could act as calm as you, Sir."
Gumshoe actually saluted him, with a determined gleam in his eye. Edgeworth would need to adjust his salary for his discretion, and his enthusiasm – and he would need to inform Wright that he had been, well, right. Gumshoe was the logical choice for assistance. He felt mildly shocked that he had been unable to reach the same conclusion; but, considering the subject and his emotional state, perhaps it could be excused.
Over the next few days Gumshoe had devoted himself to uncovering Christopher Banks' whereabouts. Edgeworth collected all the evidence sent to him – the letters, the texts, the photos – and arranged for recordings of the calls to be sent to his office.
And now, once Gumshoe arrived for their next meeting, Edgeworth could start putting all this torment behind him.
The late afternoon Los Angeles sun shone through the windows and tinted Edgeworth's office orange, and he was reminded of sunsets in Germany, where the evening light peeking between church towers in Heidelberg cast the city in a warm glow. He could be there now, nine hours into the future and six thousand miles away from the two things – the two people – who had turned his life into a tumultuous mess.
He laughed, a low, bitter noise. He sounded just like Franziska during her turbulent adolescent years. Perhaps he too should pick up a riding crop or a whip and exorcise his emotions in a flurry of violent catharsis. He glanced at his phone, calculating the time difference instinctively.
She would be asleep now, or at least she should be. With the German courts lapping at her feet like a well-heeled dog, she had no need to keep awake at all hours preparing for trial. More likely, she had already arranged the perfect argument to crush her next opponent underfoot.
Even if he did phone, her sympathy would be less than kind. She'd call him a fool, of course, and chastise his vulnerability, and berate him for besmirching the von Karma name with something as base as a one-night stand. She would swear at him for even thinking about Wright; she still hadn't forgiven him for defeating the attorney before she could claim victory, even if she had been hospitalized at the time.
She would mock him for his choice, for letting his heart stray toward such a ridiculous fool. And he would only have to mention a certain blonde protégé at Lordly Tailor that she still visited from time to time, remind her that she too had a weakness for soft smiles and loyalty, and her admonishments would be cut short.
Sometimes she was more like her 'little brother' than she cared to admit.
Her tone would soften then, just a bit, and she would urge him to lift his head and squash any foolish stalkers under his fist. And quietly, with a note of subtle warmth heard by very few people, she would assure him that even blind, idiot, ridiculous fools could eventually find perfection.
Despite the lead block of misery weighing him down, Edgeworth felt the corners of his mouth twitch up. He would need to send Franziska a bag of those citrus sweets they both had a fondness for, in gratitude for a conversation they never had.
A loud, booming knock at his door signaled the detective's arrival. Edgeworth swung it open, eager to exchange information.
"Tell me you have good news, Detective."
But his words were met with a foreboding silence, and as he turned to the detective, he saw Gumshoe's expression fall.
"I'm afraid there's no good news here, Sir. You- You might want to sit down for this."
Edgeworth stood defiantly, staring Gumshoe resolutely in the eye, until the detective sighed and handed him a folder. As Edgeworth perused the papers inside, Gumshoe began speaking in a straightforward voice.
"The phone number you originally gave me belonged to a burn phone – cells that you can pick up for cheap with no carrier. I tracked the sale of the phone, but it was paid for in cash months ago, across the country. The other numbers you gave me were untraceable. He's probably using a call randomizer or disposable numbers for the calls and texts, which means that he's probably using just one phone now but that there's no way to track it."
Gumshoe paused, shifting his weight as he moved on to the next point.
"The photos were uploaded to his phone before he sent them to you with all the identifying information and codes stripped out. It's kind of a sophisticated thing to do."
Edgeworth glanced up from the folder, eyebrows raised high. He was impressed at the detail the detective could provide; and he remembered that Gumshoe was actually quite skilled with electronics, having built several devices on his own. If the detective were willing to transfer out of Homicide to a division more suited for him, perhaps he would suffer fewer losses to his paycheck.
He moved to his desk, spreading the folder's contents in front of him. He gestured for Gumshoe to have a seat on the sofa as he kept speaking.
"There were no fingerprints on any of the envelopes or other materials. Like you found out, there's no point-of-sale data recoverable from the Gatewater; he paid for everything with cash. We could find no credit or financial information about him. Anyplace he might have been – the hotel, the courthouse, your apartment – he doesn't appear on security footage. He's either lucky, or very smart."
"Were you able to find his address?"
Gumshoe cringed. "That's been a big problem, Sir. Without a way to get into direct contact with him, we can't serve the restraining order. The name 'Christopher Banks' leads us nowhere. There are dozens of people in the city and surrounding 'burbs that have the name, but none of them match the physical description you gave."
"What about work registration? Were you able to obtain an employee roster from Three-Fifths Bank?"
The detective suddenly looked down, idly running his hands around the sofa fabric, avoiding looking at the prosecutor. "Yes Sir. But there's no record of any employee there named 'Christopher Banks.' There's also no such title as vice president of business strategy, or any other positions sounding like that."
He paused as Edgeworth looked up, face turned grey.
Gumshoe took in a deep breath and finally looked the prosecutor in the eye.
"There's no record of the man you know as Christopher Banks. He doesn't exist."
Edgeworth could only stare at Gumshoe, the words slowly sinking in.
How could that be true? For a moment he entertained the thought that the whole situation was an elaborate gaslighting plot, that Christopher had arranged events so as to discredit Edgeworth and make him question his own sanity. It was a situation only Wright would dream up, flailing about behind the defense's bench and forming some outlandish theory to save his client. And yet, how many times had Wright's insane ideas proven true?
Gumshoe spoke up as Edgeworth was about to voice his concern.
"That- That didn't quite come out right, Sir. I'm sure he exists – someone has to be doing this to you. It's just that he's left no trace of himself. He probably isn't even named Christopher Banks."
Edgeworth just numbly nodded, considering the possibilities. He opened his laptop to refer to his own notes on the man he knew as 'Christopher Banks.'
He blinked. Normally the files on his laptop were carefully arranged, with the background a plain black or, if he were feeling unusually stressed, a calming neutral color. Now the folders were scattered haphazardly, and the background was a somewhat blurry picture.
It was the first photograph of himself that he'd received from Christopher.
Edgeworth felt his breath freeze in his throat, his hands gripping the edge of his desk so tightly his fingers turned white.
"Detective!"
As Gumshoe hurried behind him, Edgeworth's word processing program opened without any input from the prosecutor. Edgeworth sensed the detective leaning down next to him and heard him growl with disapproval as words started appearing, letter by letter, on the blank white page.
You can't stay away from me forever.
I'll be waiting for you tonight.
Edgeworth remained still, waiting for more words to appear on the screen; and when nothing else happened, he slammed his laptop closed with a frightening force and pushed it toward the detective.
"Find out how he's doing that, Gumshoe."
He leaned his elbows on his desk and rested his forehead in his hands, rubbing his thumbs at his temples. A migraine was building, had been forming ever since Gumshoe first said he had no good news. He took slow, deep breaths, trying to stifle the intense fury that threatened to overwhelm him.
"Mister Edgeworth, Sir."
Gumshoe cleared his throat behind him, lingering. When Edgeworth made no reply, he drew in a big breath of his own and started speaking.
"Sir, I'll have the boys go over your laptop immediately. But if he could break into your computer…"
He trailed off as the prosecutor tilted his head, glaring at him through the corner of his eyes. Suddenly Edgeworth realized what the detective was trying to say, and his eyes widened as he let out an undignified groan.
"…He could break into my other accounts."
Email. Financial information, bank accounts, credit cards, bill payments. Case files, court proceedings, State records. Personal information, photos, memberships, notes...
The list was staggering.
The room began to fade slightly as Edgeworth's vision blurred, his head aching. The consequences of this violation of his privacy could be incalculable. All the anger he felt morphed into something cold and dreadful, and for the first time since the harassment began Edgeworth felt a tremor of genuine fear.
"You can use the computers at the station, Sir, to check anything you need to. It's a secure network."
Edgeworth nodded, hands balled into fists. He followed the detective out of his office and accepted a ride to the police department. While Gumshoe dropped off his laptop to the cyber division, Edgeworth looked into his online accounts.
His first priority was his email, since a breach there could potentially affect hundreds more people. Indeed, his account had been broken into; Christopher had changed his password and locked him out. The Prosecutor's Office would need to be informed and his professional contacts would be notified to change their passwords. Edgeworth would have to notify his personal contacts himself, once the police department could pull the email addresses from his laptop.
Next were his accounts with the State judicial system. Fortunately they appeared to be untampered with, his court records and case notes unmolested. At least his work was safe.
Edgeworth feared his bank accounts would be empty. Instead they had been frozen; no assets could be removed or changed. He would need to visit his bank and financier in person to sort out the mess. The same applied to his credit cards.
He rose from the computer terminal as he heard Gumshoe approach. The detective gave him a grave look as Edgeworth informed him of the damage he'd sustained.
"Sir, I hate to tell you this, but I don't think it's safe for you to go home this evening. Between the stalking photos, the hacking, and that message we both saw, I think the guy might be there tonight."
Edgeworth fought off a weary sigh. "You might have a point, Detective."
"Can you find a safe place to stay this evening? At least until we can arrange for a relocation and protection for you."
He scowled. "I have no intention of moving somewhere else."
Gumshoe's eyes widened. "But Sir–"
"I will not allow this man to interfere with my work any more than he already has." He stared hard at Gumshoe, unwilling to budge.
The detective looked down, shoulders slumping. "I can't force you to do anything, but I also can't let you go to your apartment. Me and a few others are gonna watch it tonight. If we're lucky we'll catch him there. We can spare a couple officers for security detail tonight, wherever you go."
Edgeworth frowned. He couldn't stay at a hotel; Christopher would be able to track him if he tried to use his credit cards, and he didn't have any cash on hand. The police department would need time to arrange a safe-house for him, and there was no guarantee such a place would be within the city. If he wanted to continue with his trials, Edgeworth would need to remain nearby. The most prudent option would be to stay with a friend or relative.
He tapped his finger against his arm as he considered his options. Franziska was in Germany; there was no way he could fly to another country at the moment. He had no other relatives, a painful fact he'd been reminded of every day before von Karma adopted him. Gumshoe would most likely be willing to take him in for the night, but the detective was already helping him a great deal, and he had no desire to impose on Miss Byrde.
Edgeworth mentally sifted through his remaining contacts and acquaintances, discarding each of them for one reason or another: he did not know them well enough to ask for such a favor, or they lived too far out of town, or they would be too inconvenienced.
There was only one option. Part of him knew he would reach this conclusion before he even began sorting through the people in his life; and though his affairs were an immeasurable wreck at the moment, that part of him made his heart beat faster as he made his decision.
"Detective Gumshoe," Edgeworth said, swallowing hard, "I need to make a phone call. And then I will require one more lift for this evening."
Edgeworth stood outside the door with nothing but his work briefcase in hand. Gumshoe had dropped him off, promising to keep a close eye on his apartment. Edgeworth had given him his key and a list of items to retrieve from his home in the morning, should Christopher escape their watch this evening. The security officers were parked discreetly nearby, and he'd heard Gumshoe's vehicle speed out of the parking lot a few minutes ago.
He sighed; the detective should have made sure he was safe inside before he drove away. Gumshoe was just a bit too eager to get to the stakeout.
Or perhaps the prosecutor was stalling too long.
Edgeworth closed his eyes and silently counted; on three he would knock.
One.
All of them had agreed this was the best arrangement for the night.
Two.
He had no logical reason to hesitate.
Three.
And there was a part of him that really wanted this, the part of him that still clung to the question of What if.
His pulse pounding, he rapped quickly on the door and waited. A long moment later it opened.
Wright looked at him, and smiled.