Page 137 of Detectives in Love
“Yeah,” Hill says, thinking it over. “Closed the door and the gate, like I told him. You don’t need a key—just pull it shut and it locks.”
“You said he was a few hours late,” I say, pulling up the schedule on my phone. “Do you remember what time he actually showed up?”
“Around seven, I think,” Hill says. “I was already heading out.”
“And when did you get back?”
“Around ten-thirty. He was gone by then. He called me sometime after eight, but I didn’t pick up. I figured he just wanted to say he was leaving.”
“Can you tell me where you were that evening?” I ask, watching him shift. He looks uneasy now—in the set of his shoulders and the look on his face.
“You don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you?” His voice sharpens a little.
“It’s a standard question, Mr. Hill,” I say, keeping my tone even. “I have to ask.”
“I was with a friend.”
“Alright,” I nod. “I’d appreciate their number, just to confirm.”
He blinks at me—and for a moment, I’m almost sure he goes pale. Then, quickly recovering, he says, “He’s out of the country right now. But I can take your number and ask him to call you when he’s back.”
“Please do,” I say. I give him my number, and he types it into his phone. “What’s his name, by the way?” I ask.
Hill blinks, hesitates for a beat. “Bill.”
“Just Bill?”
“Craig.”
“Alright,” I say, noting it down. “Thanks.” I give him a small nod. “Goodbye, Mr. Hill.”
He nods back. “Bye.”
I turn to leave, feeling his eyes on me the whole way to the gate. I step outside and pull it shut behind me.
Well, at least that’s one witness I’m sure is lying about something. I don’t think he killed Bridge, but he’s definitelyhiding something. And he was the only one of the witnesses not listed in the police report—which might mean something, too.
I head up the street, scanning for a place to call a cab—I don’t want to linger in front of Hill’s house too long, not with him possibly still watching. That stare of his was unsettling.
I wish Xavier were here with me. He’d probably catch something I missed—a flicker in the guy’s voice, a shift in posture—and crack the whole thing wide open.
Just as I’m thinking that, my phone buzzes.
I pull it out, half expecting a text—but it’s a call. My chest tightens the moment I see his name.
“Hey,” I say, picking up. “You okay?”
“Newt…” Xavier’s voice breaks through, thin and frayed, barely holding together.
I stop in the middle of the street, heart pounding in my ears. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s…blood.” His voice is hoarse, uneven.
“What?” My stomach drops, and my vision blurs. “I’ll call 911—”
“It’s not mine,” he cuts in.
“Whose blood is it, Xavier?” I ask, panic rising fast. “Where are you? Are you hurt?”
