Page 172 of Detectives in Love
As we step out onto the porch, finally alone, Fred turns to me and says quickly, “I can explain.”
“Yeah, you better,” I say, crossing my arms. “So it wasn’t an accident? Us bumping into each other that night?”
Fred meets my eyes, but it’s clear it’s the last thing he wants to do.
“It was,” he says. “I swear to God, it was.”
“And you just happened to have a bug on you?” I say, voice sharp with sarcasm. “Start telling the truth, or we’re going to the police.”
Fred sighs, frustrated, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Okay,” he says, shoulders sagging. “It wasn’t a complete coincidence. But I needed the money. You know how many kids I have, Newt—my journalist salary barely covers rent.”
“Right,” I say, my mouth pulling into a bitter twist. “So you decided to blow up a massive story about your old friend and cash in?”
“I swear, I thought it was just some dumb prank at first,” Fred says, his voice tightening. “He offered me money to plant the bug—basically dared me to—and I said yes. I didn’t think it’d turn into—”
“He? Who?” I cut in, frowning, my pulse already picking up again. “Who offered you money?”
“Bernard,” he says.
“Bernard?” My mouth goes dry. “Bernard Nimoy?”
Fred blinks. “Wait—you didn’t know? This was all his idea.”
“What…” I stare at him, completely thrown. For a second it feels like maybe I’m dreaming, or losing blood, or both.“Why the hell would Bernard make up a story about Xavier and me? We hadn’t even met him back then.”
“You had,” Fred says, and there’s a flicker of relief in his voice—like he thinks this new turn will take the heat off him. “He’d been following you. Saw us bump into each other that night and trailed us into the bar. Didn’t say a word at first—just waited until you were drunk and completely out of it before showing up.”
I stare at him, trying to tell if he’s lying—but he doesn’t look like he is.
“What else do you know?” I ask, and Fred looks almost relieved, like spilling more might save him.
“He’s behind all of it,” he says quickly, eager to shift the blame. “He paid me to stay quiet when I figured out he was the one who leaked the story toThe Weekend Herald…”
A chill creeps up my spine. Could that really have been Bernard’s plan?
“Why?” I ask. “Why would he do that?”
Fred shrugs. “I’ve got no idea.”
I start to turn back toward the building, but he stops me, like he already knows what I’m thinking.
“He’s gone for the day. He left twenty minutes ago.”
I don’t answer. Just pull out my phone and head down the steps toward the road, dialing Xavier. My heart’s pounding, and there’s this noise in my head I can’t shut out—a theory starting to come together, not fully there yet.
The line keeps ringing, but he doesn’t pick up. I text him: Call me.
If I can’t put it all together, Xavier will. If I can find him.
My pulse is so loud it drowns everything else out as I order a cab and wait by the curb.
Why would Bernard care about Xavier and me? He’s a political journalist. What would he even want from us? None of it makes sense.
Could Fred be lying? Sure. But it didn’t feel like he was.
When the taxi pulls up, I get in, just wanting to get home and see Xavier there—maybe asleep on the couch, or sitting in the kitchen with his laptop. But the knot in my stomach says I won’t be that lucky.
