Page 16 of Detectives in Love
“It’s stranger than you think,” Xavier says, his voice low against the hum of the car.
“How?” I ask, frowning.
He opens his eyes and pauses, like he’s savoring the moment before the reveal, then dives in.
“Small amounts of cryogenic liquid on skin don’t cause severe frostbite—the thermal conductivity is too low. We saw the body four hours after it was found, and it was still, as you put it, ‘frozen solid.’ Wakefield had been dead for at least a day by Monday. Even if he’d decided to work through the weekend—which I doubt, considering he never canceled his date—”
“What date? How did you—” I cut in, staring at him, completely thrown.
“—that means on Sunday, he supposedly chose to off himself by diving into a vat of liquid nitrogen,” Xavier continues, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Shame we weren’t at Rishetor on the 28th. I wanted to corner those clowns who nearly convinced Willand to call it a workplace accident. As for the suffocation—no doubt about it. The body reeked of gasoline. But go ahead, prove me wrong.”
I sift through the papers until I find the toxicology results, my brow furrowing as I nod.
“Yeah, you’re right. Cause of death was asphyxiation. But where the hell would Wakefield have breathed in gasoline vapors?”
“Now that’s the million-dollar question,” Xavier says, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “And here’s the real kicker—how did he end up frozenafterhe suffocated?”
Before I can respond, the taxi driver lets out a string of curses. The car skids, fishtailing, and I lurch sideways, slamming into Xavier. He grabs my elbow to steady me—because, of course, he’s unfazed, built like a damn statue—just as the car jerks to a stop.
“What the—” the driver starts, but a sharp knock on his window cuts him off. He throws the door open and steps out, slamming it behind him.
“What’s going on?” I ask, frowning as I reach for the door handle—but I pause when the door on Xavier’s side swings open.
A stocky, dark-haired man in his forties, dressed in a sleek black suit, leans into the cab.
“Mr. Doherty, if you’d please step out of the vehicle,” he says, polite but firm, looking past Xavier straight at me.
Something feels off, and I tense. Xavier glances at me, finally letting go of my elbow—there’s a touch of reluctance in the way he does it—his expression twisting into a faint grimace.
“Ernest,” he mutters under his breath.
Of course.
We step out of the taxi, and the man gestures for us to follow him past our cab driver, who looks distinctly annoyed, toward another figure waiting nearby.
Standing against the snowy backdrop is Ernest Ormond—Xavier’s uncle, whom I’ve only seen four times since I met Xavier. Ernest looks like he stepped straight out of a luxury magazine: his tailored coat perfectly cut, his Italian leather shoes polished to a mirror shine, a cashmere scarf perfectly knotted at his collar, a sleek watch catching the light on his wrist. Everything about him radiates money—even his demeanor has the cool detachment of a billionaire. Despite being Xavier’s uncle, he’s younger than you’d expect—maybe a little over forty—but he carries himself with the authority of someone twice his age.
Behind him, a sleek, midnight-black Aston Martin shines like it just rolled out of a showroom, sealing the image.
“You’ve really outdone yourself this time, Uncle,” Xavier drawls. “What’s next, a helicopter? Planning to parachute in for the full effect?”
“I’ll have you know we cleared two miles of Ellington Road just for this little tête-à-tête,” Ernest replies, his smile not reaching his eyes.
“Don’t bother next time. I’m not a fan of grand gestures,” Xavier says flatly. “And we’ve got nothing to talk about.”
“I assure you, all this isn’t for your benefit,” Ernest replies smoothly, his razor-sharp gaze shifting to me. He nods once. “It’s for Mr. Doherty’s.”
“Is that so?” Xavier’s eyes narrow, his tone darkening.
“Indeed. Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Ernest says, completely unbothered. “I’d like a word with him. In private.”
“Why?” Xavier steps closer to me, refusing to move.
It’s always the same with these two—locking horns, neither willing to give an inch. Usually, Ernest shows up under some vague pretense, supposedly to talk to Xavier, but really just to lecture him. Then they argue, and I get stuck watching their family drama unfold. They normally leave me out of it, so the fact that Ernest actually wants to talk to me this time—that’s new.
“I’d rather not get into the details,” Ernest says, his gaze shifting back to me. “Mr. Doherty?”
“Whatever it is, Ernest,” I reply, crossing my arms, “you can say it in front of Xavier.”
