Page 174 of Detectives in Love
“Of course, sweetheart,” she says, giving my elbow a gentle pat.
She walks me to the door, and just as I’m about to leave, she adds, “Newt, dear…I can see Xavier loves you very much. Even if he doesn’t always know how to show it. I’m sure that’s why he acts the way he does.”
I blink, my throat tightening. I nod and step out, heading back upstairs before I lose it right there in front of her.
When I step into the living room, I kick off my shoes and sink onto the couch without even taking off my jacket, my mind still buzzing.
For a while, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the stillness around me. At some point, I nearly drift off—my head a swarm of anxious thoughts, half-formed conversations, moments from the past week and ones that never actually happened.
I see Xavier’s face. I know he’s not here, but I hear his voice anyway:“People lie easiest when they say they’ve got no reason to.”
I sit up, suddenly wide awake, my heart beating hard in my throat. A thought pushes its way in—what if Xavier lied about his father because he didn’t want to talk about what really happened that night between us? He might have. That would be just like him. But why make up something so big just to cover a lie?
I stay there, thinking. Mrs. Waverly’s words echo in my head:“Xavier loves you very much. Even if he doesn’t always know how to show it. I’m sure that’s why he acts the way he does.”
I think back to this morning—how frustrated he was, how wound up.
“I didn’t keep you out of it because I didn’t trust you. I did it because I can’t fucking handle the thought of losing you. I don’t sleep for days if there’s a gun anywhere near you. Or a knife. Or whatever else.”
And now he’s doing it again. Shutting me out. When he said he needed to be alone, he had that same look in his eyes—hurt, even if it was only there for a second.
But what is he trying to protect me from now?
I exhale, thinking. Maybe it’s the killer who broke into our apartment. That would make sense—if Xavier figured something out, maybe he’s trying to keep me out of it while he follows the lead himself. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Or maybe this isn’t about the killer at all. Maybe it’s about Fred. Or Bernard. What if Xavier figured out Bernard was part of the scandal on his own? He wasn’t atThe Chroniclewhen I got there—so he clearly wasn’t after Fred.
I sit there, turning the possibilities over in my head like a Rubik’s cube, trying to find the one side that makes everything line up.
I glance around the room and only now notice how spotless it is. Mr. and Mrs. Waverly must’ve cleaned up, just like they said they would. I make a mental note to thank them later. A small stack of newspapers sits neatly in the corner of the coffee table.
The top one isThe Chronicle, which is why I pick it up. The front page is all about Minister Craig and his lover—looks like the print version of Bernard’s article I read this morning. I feel that same twist of anger flare up, knowing now he was trying to pull the same thing with Xavier and me.
I stare at the photos of the two men. The setup looks eerily familiar—almost identical to the pictures of Xavier and me fromThe Weekend Herald. The bastard really just copy-pasted the whole thing.
And that’s when I freeze. My heart slams in my ears, adrenaline flooding my veins so fast it’s blinding—because I finally recognize the man in the photo. Minister Craig’s advisor.
I’ve met him before.
I shoot to my feet, the floor seeming to tilt under me, everything crashing down all at once.
The man in the photo is Christopher Hill.
The witness in the Bridge case.
And before I can even figure out why this strange coincidence matters, my gut already knows. Something’s off.
Everything slows. I drop the newspaper and just stand there, frozen, my mind racing. Time feels suspended—I don’t hear the cars outside, or the wind against the windows. Just silence, and that rising certainty in my chest that something’s gone terribly wrong.
Suddenly, my mind sharpens. The buzzing swarm of thoughts starts to settle, each snapping into place.
Cormac Bridge’s murder.
Christopher Hill.
The scandal with Minister Craig.
Ice wraps around my heart. My breath turns shallow. That low, creeping anxiety shifts—into something colder. Stronger.
