Page 141 of Detectives in Love
“I’m fine,” Xavier says for what feels like the dozenth time tonight—but then he finally looks up at her. “Do you have anything for a headache? It’s killing me.”
“Sure,” she says easily. “Aspirin, acetaminophen, ibuprofen—whatever you prefer.”
“Acetaminophen,” Xavier says.
The paramedic rummages through her medical bag and pulls out a blister pack. She pops out a pill and holds it out, but Xavier just stares down at his bloodied hands.
“I’ll take it,” I say, stepping forward to grab the pill from her. Then I turn to him. “Come on. Let’s go find a bathroom—I’ll help you wash up.”
Xavier nods, and we head deeper into the house.
When we find a bathroom, I close the door behind us and turn on the tap.
For a minute, we just stand there in silence—Xavier scrubbing the blood from his hands, the water in the sink swirling pink. Then he grabs a pack of wet wipes from the counter and starts wiping the blood off his abs and stomach.
I want to ask him what he was really doing here—since I know he lied to Willand about Mrs. Bridge calling him—but I don’t. I don’t want to interrogate him, not now.
So I just stand there, watching him, feeling my own headache start to burn in the back of my skull.
When Xavier finishes cleaning up, I hand him the pill, and he swallows it dry. Then he looks at me.
“I’ll tell you everything when we’re home,” he says, like he just read my mind, his voice barely above a whisper. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, my heart skipping a beat.
He looks at me for a second longer, something raw in his eyes—then steps closer and hugs me, pulling me in tight.
I hug him back, my breath catching as he presses his face into the crook of my neck, breathing me in. I catch the faint scent of soap, wet wipes, and underneath it, just him—and my heart hammers against my chest.
It only lasts a second before he lets go and says, “I want to go home.”
I nod. “Let’s go ask Willand if he’s done with you.”
Xavier nods, his eyes lingering on my face for a moment before he turns and steps out. I follow him back into the living room—and just like that, the small, fragile calm we had breaks, and I’m back at the crime scene.
We find Willand talking to Crowley. As we approach, she glances at me and I almost instinctively brace for some of her usual nonsense—but instead she just hands me my jacket.
“Is this yours?”
“Thank you,” I say with a nod.
She nods back, then gives Xavier a quick once-over, her brow furrowing.
“Do you need us here?” I ask Willand. “I think we should go.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Not today.” Then he glances at Xavier. “If you remember anything else about the guy, call me.”
“I will,” Xavier says quietly, shooting me a quick look. I catch the flicker of impatience in his eyes, the tension in the way he stands—like he can’t take being here another second.
I nod, head over to the medics to grab a blanket for him, then order a cab.
A few minutes later, we leave the house behind and find our cab waiting across the street. As we climb in, the driver gives us a long look—probably trying to figure out why Xavier’s wearing a blanket instead of clothes—but he doesn’t say anything.
We sit in silence for a while. It’s only after we leave Fulton behind and roll through the quiet stretch of Marlow Park that Xavier says, “Are you angry at me?”
I turn to look at him. He’s half-turned toward me, wrapped in that rough, cheap-looking blanket, his cheek pressed against the headrest.
“I’m not,” I say honestly. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
