Page 15 of Detectives in Love
“No, we’re leaving,” Xavier says flatly, already striding back into the break room.
I follow, though my legs suddenly feel unsteady—like the floor beneath me has turned to jelly.
“So soon?” Fred asks, eyebrows lifting in surprise.
Xavier doesn’t answer. He grabs the folder he left on the table, then glances at me. “Are you coming?”
I just nod, not trusting myself to speak.
CHAPTER 4. THE UNCLE
“Where are we going?” I ask, catching up with Xavier in the hallway. “Pretty sure the journalists are still camped outside our place.”
“We’ve got a case to investigate,” he says, his tone clipped. “Need to talk to some witnesses.”
“Didn’t the report already have their statements?” I frown, distracted as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance at the screen—Monica’s calling.
“Not for the Bridge case,” Xavier says, his expression shifting, thoughtful now. “For the Rishetor case.”
I hit decline and slip my phone back into my pocket. “Rishetor? Didn’t Willand say—”
“Willand doesn’t know about this,” Xavier cuts in. “And he won’t. At least, not yet.”
He waves the folder in front of my face—and that’s when I notice he’s holdingtwo.
“You swiped the Rishetor files?” I ask, caught somewhere between impressed and amused. A grin tugs at my lips—it’s hard not to appreciate how smoothly he pulled it off. Honestly, if this detective thing ever falls apart, Xavier could moonlight as a magician. Or a thief.
“Yeah, right before we left,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching up.
I shrug. “Well, let’s go, then. With any luck, the journalists will be gone from Hickory Road by the time we get back.”
***
When we step outside, the snow has mostly stopped, just a few stray flakes drifting through the air. But the sky is still heavy with steel-gray clouds, hanging low, threatening to dump more at any second.
My phone buzzes again—Monica. I ignore it. She can be annoyingly persistent sometimes.
Xavier’s gaze flicks to my phone as I slip it back into my pocket.
“Sister,” I say with a shrug.
He doesn’t say anything, feigning disinterest like always.
We get a taxi, and soon we’re cruising down the misty highway toward Hilton, where the Rishetor Research Center is located.
I grab the folder from Xavier, set it on my lap, and start flipping through the documents. Meanwhile, Xavier leans back, arms crossed, eyes closed—completely at ease.
“Find the toxicology report,” he says.
“You still think he was poisoned?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“In a way,” he says. “‘Suffocated’ is probably the better word—he didn’t die from poison but from lack of oxygen. The report should confirm it.”
“Xavier, Wakefield was practically frozen solid. You saw him in the morgue.”
“That’s exactly what doesn’t make sense,” Xavier replies, still not bothering to open his eyes, like he’s meditating.
“The guy was a cryogenics specialist at Rishetor,” I mutter, skimming the papers. “Dying from exposure to cryogenic fluid wouldn’t be much of a leap.” A dull ache pulses behind my temples—stress, hangover, or both. I wince and rub my forehead.
