Page 120 of Detectives in Love
The elevator dings—fifth floor.
Xavier glances over his shoulder, waits just long enough for Crowley to step out, then finally moves back, giving me space again.
I follow him out, pulse still hammering in my throat. Crowley storms down the hall, clearly pissed about Xavier’s little trick. She’s already ten feet ahead by the time we step into the corridor, so thankfully we don’t have to deal with her.
“Ernest,” Xavier says as we walk down the corridor. “What did he want from your sister?”
“Ah, nothing really,” I say, trying to sound casual. Now I kind of regret bringing it up—it circles back to us, whether I like it or not. But I can’t dodge it now. Xavier’s watching me, waiting.
So I go, “He, uh…asked her to talk to me or something.” I tack on a quick snort to make it sound less serious, but it doesn’t fool him.
“Talk to you?” he echoes, putting weight on the first word. The narrowing of his eyes tells me he’s already annoyed—and already knows where this is going.
“Well, yeah,” I shrug, like that somehow makes it better.
“About what?”
“Well,” I repeat, stalling. I have no idea how to steer this conversation without steering it straight into a wall. “I don’t really know. But he’s basically worried about you. Which—you already know.”
Xavier’s jaw tightens. He’s clearly fuming. We walk in silence for a moment before he mutters, “I tell him to stay away from you, and now he’s bothering your sister. Did he seriously think that wouldn’t get back to me?”
I shrug, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. “Hey, wanna come visit my mom with me?” I say, mostly joking—just trying to stop him from imagining all the ways he could kill Ernest.
But to my surprise, he actually looks at me, brow furrowed like he’s considering it.
“When?” he asks, way too serious for what this was supposed to be.
“Uh,” I say, thrown. “Couple weeks? Once you’re feeling better.”
“Okay,” he says—and throws me another unreadable, too-serious look.
“Cool,” I say, my cheeks suddenly burning.
The rest of the walk to Willand’s office is quiet.
So yeah—apparently Xavier and I are going to my mom’s now. My stomach twists at the thought, because I just know those two are going to be like Coke and Mentos. She’s set in her ways, and Xavier hates people like that.
But the fact that he’s actually considering it makes my heart flutter. Which is mildly alarming, given I’m a thirty-four-year-old man, not a hormone-hazed teen.
The warm flutter doesn’t last long, though. It gets steamrolled by a wave of panic. I picture him in her sterile kitchen, drinking coffee while she interrogates him like he’s applying for a fiancé visa. There’s no way I can take him with me. If she’s read even one of those articles, she’ll be grilling him with every question she’s been saving up since the news broke.
I exhale slowly, reminding myself that I don’t even have to go, if I don’t want to.
I’m still deep in thought as we follow Crowley into Willand’s office, which is probably why it takes me a second to realize we’re not alone. Willand is behind his desk, a thick folder open in front of him. Across from him, in the armchairs facing away from the door, sit a man and a woman. I don’t see their faces right away, but judging by the tight set of Willand’s jaw and the flicker of surprise in his eyes when he spots us, we’ve clearly walked in at the worst possible moment.
Right then, both the man and the woman turn their chairs toward us—and my heart skips a beat.
The woman I recognize instantly: Katie Fairfax. Her face shifts when she sees me—first surprise, then cool indifference. And the man next to her, who I’ve never seen before, must be Mr. Rishetor himself. Back from vacation, if he ever left in the first place. Early sixties, slicked-back gray hair, and a three-piece suit pulled tight across his stomach.
“Mr. Rishetor, Miss Fairfax, this is Xavier Ormond and Newt Doherty,” Willand says, introducing us.
“Hello,” Xavier says, settling onto the couch beside Willand’s desk, moving slower than usual, like it takes effort. He doesn’t offer a handshake—not that anyone here would take it. So I don’t bother either—just nod a hello and sit down next to him.
Rishetor gives us a slow once-over, cold and assessing. Katie, on the other hand, doesn’t look at us at all. After that one frosty glance in my direction, it’s like I don’t exist. No trace that we spent last evening together—and it had been a pleasant one, too.
“Well,” Rishetor says, his lip curling slightly as he glances at Xavier, “looks like you made it out alive after all. Impressive, considering you spent over ten hours in one of our labs at sub-zero temperature.”
He’s not really speaking to Xavier, though. He’s performing—for Willand, for Katie, maybe even for Crowley, who’s now parked herself by the desk with that smug little smirk she wears so well.
