Page 36 of Detectives in Love
“Where?” I ask, still foggy with sleep.
“To the crematorium.”
I frown. “Already?”
“Yeah.”
I sit up fully. The headache’s mostly gone now—just a dull throb lingering at the back of my skull.
“What time is it?”
“Two-twenty. I already called a cab.”
“Seriously? Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”
“I tried. You were out cold.”
“I don’t remember that at all.” I throw off the covers, and as Xavier stands, I swing my feet to the floor.
“You told me to fuck off,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “You’re kind of angry in your sleep.”
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I don’t remember any of it.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “Now get dressed.” Something soft lands in my lap.
I squint at the bundle in the dim light. “What’s this?”
“I brought your clothes,” he says, already turning to leave and give me privacy.
“Xavier,” I call after him, and he pauses in the doorway. I don’t even know why I stopped him—I just don’t want him to leave yet. “Are you okay?” I ask, immediately regretting how awkward it sounds.
“Of course,” he says, a little too easily. Which only makes me doubt it more. “I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.”
“Okay,” I say, watching his back as he walks out.
I switch on the bedside lamp and look down at the striped sweater and jeans in my lap. My clothes. He must’ve gone and picked them out for me. Maybe I’m reading too much into it—but still. That’s…kind of sweet.
I dress quickly, splash cold water on my face in the bathroom, fish my belt out of the laundry pile, and head to the kitchen.
Xavier’s already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, his fingers tapping quietly. A rolled-up case file sticks out of his coat pocket.
“Is that the Rishetor case?” I ask, glancing at it.
He gives a small nod. The bruise on his cheek looks worse now—darker, more spread out.
“Ready?” he asks, meeting my eyes.
“Yeah,” I say, blinking out of whatever thought I’d just slipped into. “Though I’d kill for a coffee…”
Xavier smirks. “No time. The driver’s already here. And if you drink coffee now, you won’t sleep later—so let’s go.”
“My life is a prison,” I sigh, deadpan.
“I’ll make you some decaf when we’re back,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching.
I glance over, caught off guard. Our eyes meet.
“What?” I frown. Then, before I can stop myself, I say, “No, you won’t.”
