Page 139 of Detectives in Love
I nod, voice low as I ask, “And after that?”
“I went inside,” he says, barely audible now. “She was already on the floor. She was…trying to stop the bleeding.”
He tilts his head toward the far wall, and that’s when I see it: a streak of blood sprayed high across the wallpaper, still fresh and glistening. Arterial spray.
“I tried to help her,” Xavier continues, voice barely there. “But the cut was too deep. She died almost instantly…in my hands.”
He’s so shaken it makes my chest ache. I want to pull him into a hug, but I don’t. I just hope there are cameras outside—because the last thing we need is the cops trying to pin this on him.
“You did everything you could,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I know you did, Xavier. Don’t even think about blaming yourself.”
He looks away, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me. For a second, I catch the glint of tears in his eyes before he turns his head, blinking them back.
We stand there, stuck in the heavy silence. Then Xavier jolts, like something just hit him.
“The kids,” he says. “They’re in the kitchen. I locked them in. They saw him kill her—they were crying, and I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Oh God,” I breathe. “I’ll get them.”
Xavier nods—and it scares me how pale he looks, like he’s about to pass out again. He points me to the door, and I head over, already trying to figure out how to get the kids out without them seeing their mother again.
When I step into the kitchen and close the door behind me, I spot them right away—huddled under the table.
Both boys look up at me, wide-eyed and wary.
“Hey,” I say quietly, crouching down but keeping some space between us. “I’m Mr. Doherty, from the police. Do you remember me?”
“Yes,” the older boy says. There’s a flicker of relief in his eyes. “Where’s Mom?”
I freeze, caught off guard. He knows—I can see it. But how the hell do you tell a seven-year-old something like this?
I spot a door that leads into the backyard.
“How about we go outside?” I say, nodding toward it. “We’ll wait there, okay?”
The older boy nods, a little unsure.
“What’s your name?” I ask, remembering one of them is Jamie and the other’s Colin—but not which is which.
“Jamie,” he says. “And this is Colin.” He points at his brother.
“Great,” I say, holding my hands out to them. “Let’s go, alright?”
Jamie crawls out from under the table, guiding Colin with him. Then he reaches out—one hand to his brother, the other to me. I walk them toward the door and open it. A blast of cold air hits me—and I realize the kids aren’t dressed for winter.
I shrug off my jacket and wrap it around them both, pulling it close.
We step outside together, moving carefully toward the front yard.
That’s when I hear it—the rising wail of police sirens, the low hum of an ambulance.
Relief crashes over me, the sharp breeze clearing the heavy, suffocating smell of blood from my nose. Soon, three police cars and an ambulance pull up outside the gate, their lights flashing across the street.
I spot Willand, Gordon, and Crowley getting out of one car, with a few more officers and the CSI team stepping out of the others.
A moment later, the gate swings open, and they spill into the yard.
Willand reaches me first but slows when he sees the kids.
