Page 179 of Detectives in Love
I close my eyes, and take a deep breath, thinking. I try to imagine how it happened. Bridge returning home, walking down Bolton Gardens, turning into this alley… Where was Nimoy at the time? Was he following him? Was he already waiting for him here? But most importantly—how did he get here without showing up on the outside cameras?..
Suddenly, my breath catches—my whole body shudders with realization.
I blink, opening my eyes. For a second, everything—the alley, the bins, the asphalt, the snow—blurs together in a dizzy mess.
And then it hits me.
I know how he did it.
The café. The damn back door of the café Bernard used to help us escape. He knew about it. He knew there was a way to slip into the alley unnoticed.
When he was following Bernard, he must’ve gone through the café and caught up with him here.
And then a second realization hits me: they must be there. If Xavier figured out how Bernard did it, he’d want to check it himself. And then—he’d offer to meet Bernard there.
They’re in the fucking café.
Going through the main entrance might be a mistake, so I head for the back instead, my heart pounding so hard it might kill me. My injured leg pulses with pain, screaming at me to stop—but I don’t care.
I pull the gate and it eases open, unlocked. The fact alone makes my breath catch, like a quiet warning. I step into the yard and move toward the café’s back entrance. My chest tightens as I reach for the handle. It gives, and the door swings open.
As soon as I step inside—I hear it: muffled voices, coming from the main room. Not the absent chatter of patrons having lunch; there’s tension in the conversation, and that’s when I know I was right.
I walk down the familiar corridor, past the bathrooms, stepping as quietly as I can. When I cross the hallway and catch a glimpse of the dining area, my heart pounds in my ears, my eyes stinging as I see Xavier and Bernard, standing across from each other like they’re in a duel. Xavier’s closer to me, hands raised. Bernard has a gun aimed straight at his chest.
My heart stops, panic flooding my senses.
For a moment, I think I might faint—my legs go weak, my head spins. But then adrenaline kicks in, cutting through the fear.
I barely stop myself from bursting into the room—but one wrong move could get Xavier shot, so I have to be careful. I step into the threshold, slowly, mentally cursing myself for not bringing a gun.
There are others inside too: a couple crouched behind the corner booth, two women hiding under one of the middle tables, and the waitress behind the bar—shaking, hands in the air, her face streaked with tears.
I look at Xavier. His face is pale, the circles under his eyes darker than before. He looks shaken, but he’s alive—and right now, nothing in the world matters more.
I take out my phone and type a message to Willand:Pond’s Café, Bolton Gardens, 8. HE’S ARMED.I pray to God he’ll get here soon.
“I didn’t plan for it to happen,” Bernard says, the gun trembling in his hand. He looks sick—paler than Xavier, his eyes dull, almost lifeless. “It’s not fair.”
Xavier lets out a bitter smirk. “Not fair,” he repeats, like it’s a bad joke. “The concept of fairness suggests you admitno power over your own life, Mr. Nimoy. That you’re not responsible for your actions—that they happen independently of you. But everything that led you here is your doing.”
“Shut up!” Bernard shouts, the gun in his hand shaking. “I needed money—I didn’t have a choice—”
“Let me guess,” Xavier cuts in. “You’re drowning in debt?”
Bernard just stares at him, stunned, the answer written all over his face. “I was desperate. I did everything I could to survive!” he yells, tears streaking down his cheeks.
“Well, you bribed other journalists,” Xavier replies, his voice void of empathy. “So you had money.”
“Not enough!” Bernard screams, his face flushed with rage. “This fucking society is built against human nature. It’s a goddamn capitalistic cage—designed to make us suffer for the rest of our lives!”
“Can’t disagree with that,” Xavier says with a dark smirk. “But you murdered someone, Bernard. That’s when you crossed the line.”
“He would’ve ratted me out to the police,” Bernard says, shaking. “Just when I was finally starting to do better—launch my career, make real money, through sweat and blood… I couldn’t let him ruin it all. It was either him or me.”
“What about Mrs. Bridge?” Xavier asks, his voice cold. “You left her bleeding on the floor in front of her children. Did she deserve to die too?”
Bernard sobs, swiping at the tears streaking down his face with a free hand. “I had no other choice,” he says, voice trembling. “I had no other choice.”
