Chapter 23: Pressure
Beck arrived at workshop fifteen minutes late, which wasn't like her.
She slipped into a seat near the back—not her usual spot—and kept her eyes down during Professor Kramer's opening remarks. Her workshop piece, when she read it aloud, was scattered. Unfocused. The kind of writing that happened when your head was somewhere else entirely.
"Interesting direction," Professor Kramer said, which was his way of saying he didn't know what to do with it. "The emotional core is there, but the structure needs tightening. Revision will help."
Beck nodded without really hearing him.
I caught her eye once during another student's reading. She looked away fast, but not before I saw the red rims. She'd been crying recently.
After class, she found me before I could reach her.
"Can we talk?" Her voice was tight. "I need... I need to talk to someone who isn't involved in everything."
"Of course. Bar?"
"Please."
The Printer's Devil was quiet for a Thursday—maybe half the usual crowd. We claimed a corner booth, ordered drinks, and sat in silence until the server left.
"Peach hired a private investigator." The words came out like she'd been holding them for days. "She hired someone to look into Joe."
I let my expression show surprise. "Seriously?"
"Seriously." Beck took a long drink of her wine. "She showed me... findings. Reports. Joe's history has gaps. Like, big ones. No verifiable employment before Mooney's. His family—he's never introduced me to anyone. His social media is only two years old. There's just... nothing before that."
"What did Peach think it meant?"
"She didn't say exactly. But the implication was obvious. She thinks he's hiding something. Something bad."
I processed this carefully, weighing my response. Too much agreement would seem suspicious. Too much dismissal would lose her trust.
"That's... a lot to process," I said. "How do you feel about her doing that?"
"Violated." Beck's voice cracked. "She went behind my back. Treated my relationship like a crime scene. Didn't even talk to me first, just... investigated."
"That does sound like a boundary violation."
"Right?" Beck's eyes filled with frustrated tears. "I know she thinks she's protecting me. But this isn't protection. This is control. This is her deciding she knows better than me."
I nodded, letting her vent.
"And the worst part is..." She trailed off, staring at her wine. "The worst part is now I can't stop thinking about it. The gaps. The questions. I look at Joe and I wonder what I don't know."
"Have you talked to him about any of this?"
Beck shook her head. "I don't know how. 'Hey, my best friend hired someone to dig up your past, want to explain yourself?' That sounds insane."
"It doesn't have to be about the investigation," I said carefully. "You can just... ask. About his past. His family. The stuff couples normally learn about each other."
"And if he won't answer?"
"Then you have information. If he will answer, you also have information." I met her eyes. "Either way, you learn something. Right now you're guessing. Guessing is harder than knowing."
Beck was quiet for a moment. "You think I should confront him."
"I think you should trust your own judgment. If questions are in your head, they won't go away by ignoring them. And if Joe's the person you think he is, he'll understand why you're asking."
She nodded slowly. "That makes sense."
"What do your instincts say about him?"
The question hung between us. Beck swirled her wine, thinking.
"He's almost too perfect sometimes," she admitted. "Like he always knows the right thing to say. The right gift. The right moment." She laughed bitterly. "I used to think it was romantic. Now I wonder if it's just... practiced."
Bingo.
"Trust yourself," I said. "Whatever you find out, whatever he says—trust your gut. You're smart. You'll know if something's wrong."
Beck's smile was small but real. "Thanks, Fin. For not telling me what to do."
"I don't know what you should do. Only you know that."
She ordered another round. We drank them slowly, conversation shifting to lighter topics—workshop gossip, writing struggles, the general absurdity of trying to make art in New York.
By the third drink, the tension in her shoulders had eased. The red rims faded.
But the questions were still there, waiting for tomorrow.
I walked her to the subway entrance. The night had turned cold—October settling into its final weeks.
"I'm going to ask him," Beck said. "Tomorrow. About his past. His family. All of it."
"That's brave."
"Or stupid." She laughed. "Probably both."
"Call me after if you need to talk?"
"I will." She hesitated, then hugged me quickly. "Thanks for being a safe space. I don't have a lot of those right now."
She disappeared down the stairs. I watched until she was gone, then started walking home.
My stomach churned with uncertainty.
Joe handled confrontation well. That was the problem. He'd had years of practice, countless opportunities to refine his techniques. Beck's questions would be a challenge, but not one he couldn't meet.
He'd probably admit something—enough truth to explain the gaps, enough vulnerability to trigger her protective instincts. He'd make himself the victim of his own history, and Beck would comfort him instead of questioning him.
By tomorrow night, she might trust him more than ever.
The intervention could backfire completely.
But the alternative was silence, and silence hadn't saved Candace Stone. At least this created data. At least it tested Joe's defenses.
And if he made a mistake—any mistake—I'd be there to see it.
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