Page 173 of Detectives in Love
The ride takes about twenty minutes. When I finally get home, I’m relieved not to see any journalists hanging around the door. I head upstairs, hoping Xavier’s inside—but when I try the key, it doesn’t fit.
I blink, confused—then remember Mr. Waverly said something about changing the lock while we were gone.
I hurry back down and knock on the Waverlys’ door. Mrs. Waverly answers a moment later.
“Hi, Mrs. Waverly,” I say, trying to keep my nerves in check.
“Oh, Newt, sweetheart, you’re here for the keys, right?” she says warmly.
“Yes,” I nod. “Thank you.”
“Come in, come in. Mr. Waverly left them for you.” She invites me inside as she heads back to fetch them.
I step into the warm coziness of their apartment, the smell of pastry and tea wrapping around me like a blanket.
“Xavier hasn’t arrived yet?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Xavier?” Mrs. Waverly echoes, glancing back at me as she heads into the living room. “Wasn’t he with you, dear?”
“He was,” I say, a tight flicker of pain and anxiety pressing at my chest. “I had something to take care of, so we split up.”
“He hasn’t come by yet, dear,” Mrs. Waverly says, a touch of concern creeping into her voice. “Have you tried calling him?”
“Yeah,” I nod, mouth dry. “He didn’t pick up. He’s probably just busy.”
“Probably,” she echoes softly. A moment later, she returns with a shiny new set of keys. “Here you are.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, trying to steady myself as a quiet, crawling panic settles in my chest.
Where would he go?
Mrs. Waverly gives me a small, worried look. “Did you two have a quarrel?”
“A little,” I admit, because saying it out loud feels like the only way to shake off the dread sitting in my chest.
“Oh, boys,” she sighs, clicking her tongue. “And here I thought you were past that separate-bedroom nonsense.”
My cheeks burn at the implication.
“We are,” I say, not even bothering to pretend—there’s a strange relief in just owning it. “It’s just still…a little complicated.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you’ll be alright,” she says, taking my hand in both of hers and giving it a warm squeeze. “It’s hard to communicate when you’re feeling everything all at once.”
“I guess,” I say, feeling a sudden burn rise in my throat. “It’s just… I don’t know. First, he won’t let me go, then he shuts down and says he needs space…” I let out a sigh, unable to meet her eyes. “I know his father died, so maybe that’s why. But I hate it when he shuts me out.”
“His father, dear?” says Mrs. Waverly. I look up at her and see the faint frown on her face.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “His dad passed away recently.”
Mrs. Waverly shakes her head. “No, dear. That happened a long time ago.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“A while back—maybe a year ago—his uncle Ernest told me Xavier’s father died when he was just five. Ernest said he was keeping an eye on him because of a promise to his older brother.”
I stare at her, something turning over in my chest. Why would Xavier lie about that? Unless Mrs. Waverly got it wrong. But it doesn’t feel like she did.I sigh, too confused to get into it now, though a twinge of unease sits heavy in my stomach.
“I’ll ask him why Ernest said that,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. Then I nod. “Thanks for the keys, Mrs. Waverly. Tell Mr. Waverly thanks too, okay?”
