❛ Someone To Call My Lover ❜
★ ₊˚. ❪ good, bad, and the evil wicked witch of the west ❫
riley ┊ chp. three┊❝ 1.03 ❞
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RILEY MOON — SMITTY has a thing for the wizard of oz. It's one of his favourite movies, and plays, and books. When he was nine, he dressed up as the tin man, when he was ten, he dressed as the scarecrow, and when he was eleven, he dresses as a gender bent wicked witch of the west.

Being a detective is great, amazing, but being the first one Angela Lopez calls when she needs something from someone else on the job — that's the icing on the cake.

Lying dead on the pavement outside a dumpster, is a woman with green painted skin that's dressed like the wicked witch of the west. He's wide eyed as he glances between her hat sprawled an arms length away, and how her leg is bent so weirdly around the broom she lays awkwardly on.

He crouches beside the body, gloved hand reaching out to gently move a dark curled strand of wig from her face. Her eyes — wide, and lifeless — stare up at him like she's still waiting for a chance that'll never come.

Riley exhales slowly, frowning. "She was someone," he murmurs, mostly to himself but also to anyone who listens.

Jackson hovers nearby, shifting awkwardly. "You think it's cosplay?"

"Could be," Riley says, eyes scanning the green paint, the broom, the hat tossed like it was an afterthought — like someone considered taking it but ended up leaving it. "Or maybe she was in a show. Either way, she didn't deserve this."

Angela steps closer, her voice low as she crouches beside him. "We'll find out who did it."

Riley straightens, brushing off his knees. "Okay. Let's find out who melted the witch, haha. And if there's a flying monkey involved, I'm officially retiring. I have enough saved."

Angela's mouth twitches, but she doesn't smile. Not here. Not now. Not when everyone is starting at them.

Their eyes meet for a second too long.

Riley looks away first.

🌙

The hat kept slipping over his eyes, and the broom was awkward to carry, but Riley was determined. He'd spent all afternoon painting his face green with drugstore makeup, smudging it just enough to look dramatic. His black dress swished around his sneakers, and he'd even glued glitter to the brim of his witch's hat — because why not?

Beside him, three-year-old Smitty waddled along in a flying monkey costume, the wings stitched on by their mom the night before. He kept tugging at the tail, complaining it was itchy in words he had only ever heard his parents say.

Their mom walked a few steps behind, holding a thermos of coffee and smiling like she was watching a movie she'd seen a hundred times but still loved. Like she had this moment painted across her wall to remind her so she could see it every day.

"You sure you don't want to be the Tin Man again?" Riley's mom had asked earlier, half an hour before they were supposed to leave.

Riley had shaken his head, ten years old and already having the witch down to every last detail. "The Witch is cooler. She's got magic. And she doesn't need anyone to rescue her."

Smitty had piped up, "Riley says she's mis — wunder — store." Misunderstood.

Their mom had laughed, cheeks red and eyes full of love. "Well, then she's in good company."

They'd gone door to door, Riley cackling at every porch. "I'll get you, my pretty!" he'd yell, voice cracking but proud.

At one house, a woman had asked, "Why the witch?"

Riley had shrugged. "She's powerful. And people only hate her because she's different."

Smitty had looked up at him, eyes wide. "You're dif — went too." Different.

Riley had smiled. "Yeah. And that's okay."

🌙

The green paint on the woman's face is darker when he views her body in the morgue.

Angela's voice breaks the silence. "We've got a name. Theater student. Local college."

Riley nods, pealing off his blue gloves. "Let's go find out who wanted to rewrite her ending."

The campus is quiet for a weekday afternoon. Leaves scatter across the pavement, and the theater building is straight ahead — old brick, faded posters taped to the windows, one of them featuring a flying house and a pair of sparkling ruby slippers.

Angela spots it first. "Looks like they were doing Oz."

Riley squints at the poster. "Opening night was last weekend. That lines up somewhat. Must be doing showings over a longe time."

Inside, the theater smells like sawdust and hairspray. A student leads them to the director's office, where a frazzled woman in her thirties flips through a binder of cast lists.

"She was our Elphaba," the director says, voice tight, but there's a hint of sadness laced within her words. "Not in Wicked, but in our Oz remix. We blended the original with some modern themes. She was incredible."

Angela leans in, curios. "Did she have any conflicts with cast members? Anyone who might've wanted to hurt her?"

The director hesitates. "There was tension. One of the other actors thought she was stealing the spotlight. But I didn't think it was serious."

Riley jots it down, then glances at a costume rack in the corner. A row of green dresses, one missing.

"She loved this story to be apart of it," he says quietly. "She didn't deserve to be part of someone else's twisted version."

Back in the car, Riley sits in the passenger seat while Jackson drives and Angela scrolls through notes in the very back. He pulls out his phone, thumbs hovering for a second before typing a message out to his brother.

Hey. You good today?

A minute passes. Then Smittys name lights up, I'm always good. What's up?

Riley stares at the screen, then types: Just saw someone dressed as the Wicked Witch. Made me think of Halloween. You remember that?

Riley can feel Smittys smile on the other side of the phone. You mean when you made me wear wings and a tail? Yeah. I still have the emotional scars and I was three. 

Riley lets out a small chuckle. You were the best flying monkey. No notes, brother.

A few minutes pass before another message pops up. You okay?

Riley hesitates, then types. Yeah. Just needed to remember something good.

Smitty sends back a thumbs-up emoji. Then a gif of a monkey doing jazz hands.

Riley smiles, just barely.

Angela glances up but doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to when she catches his eye in the rear view mirror.

🌙

The suspect — a fellow theater student named Caleb — sits across from Riley and Angela, arms crossed, eyes darting frantically like he has something to hide. He's got smudged eyeliner and a nervous twitch in his left leg.

Riley leans back in his chair, calm but focused as he darts between Caleb and his poorly scribbled notes. "You played the Wizard, right?"

Caleb nods. "Yeah. I mean, kind of. It was a remix."

Angela flips through her notes then, looking up briefly. "You and the victim had tension. Want to tell us about that?"

Caleb shrugs, but his leg never stops twitching. "She was intense. Always wanted to rehearse, always correcting people. It got old."

Riley tilts his head. "Did it get old enough to kill her?"

Caleb's eyes widen. "No! God, no. I didn't even like her that much, but I wouldn't — "

Riley cuts in, voice softer. "She was someone. Not just a role. Not just a rival. Someone's kid, someone's friend, a sister."

Caleb swallows hard. "I didn't do anything. I swear."

Angela slides a photo across the table — the broom, the costume tag, the hat. "This was found with her. Theater prop. You had access."

Caleb stares at it, then shakes his head. "Everyone did. It's not locked up. Anyone could've taken it, even if they weren't apart of the play."

Riley watches him carefully, waiting for a sign that he's guilty. "Who hated her enough to kill her?"

Caleb doesn't answer right away. But his leg stops twitching when he finally tells team about all their cast and who liked who and who didn't. Who could have done it, and who had the biggest problem with the dead girl.

Later that night, the precinct is quiet. Riley stands by the coffee machine, staring into his cup like it might offer answers with each sip.

Angela walks up beside him, her voice low. "You okay, baby?"

He nods. "Just thinking about how people turn stories into weapons."

She doesn't respond right away. "You were good today. With the kid. You reminded him she mattered."

Riley glances at her. "Someone has to."

Their eyes meet. There's a pause — long enough to say everything they can't.

Angela shifts slightly closer, almost resting her head on his shoulder. "You texted Smitty?"

Riley smiles faintly. "Yeah. He sent me a monkey gif. Classic."

She chuckles, then quiets. "You ever wish things were simpler?"

Riley looks down at his coffee. "All the time."

She reaches out, fingers brushing his hand — just for a second. Then she's gone, walking back toward her desk.

Riley watches her go, heart heavy but steady as he thinks about tomorrow — thinks about calling his mom too.