Page 3 of Detectives in Love
I frown, not sure whatthisis supposed to mean—and honestly, I don’t care. “We can’t be partners if you keep leaving me behind,” I say firmly.
For a few seconds, Xavier just looks at me, blinking like he’s processing what I said. Then, without a word, he turns away, his attention shifting to the snow-covered street outside the window.
***
After what happened at Little Italy, Xavier and I didn’t exchange a single word until the next morning.
“Good morning,” I said, glancing up from my plate as he walked into the kitchen.
“Morning,” Xavier muttered, his mood unmistakably sour.
That was the full extent of our conversation before my sister, Monica, called to invite me out for a drink later that evening. Honestly, I was relieved for the excuse to leave the apartment. Xavier was in one of his moods—the kind he always sinks into between cases. Symptoms: loud sighing, pacing the apartment like a restless animal, and snapping at every question I dare to ask.
I hadn’t planned on staying out late, but on my way back from meeting Monica, I ran into an old friend from high school, Fred Collins. He was thrilled to see me—practically bouncing on his heels—and suggested grabbing a drink at a bar nearby. I hesitated for about half a second before agreeing, grateful for another distraction. Anything to avoid going back to Xavier’s storm cloud of a mood.
We drank for a couple of hours, catching up on everything that had happened in our lives over the years. Fred had gone to college after high school and started writing part-time for a small newspaper. He’d also gotten married somewhere along the way and now had four kids. Listening to him talk about his family made me smile; it felt surreal to see a friend from high school all grown up, with a life so different from mine.
When it was my turn, I gave him the rundown of my own path: how I went from studying to be a CSI tech to working as an independent investigator and true crime writer. I even told him about the Carver case—the one that left me with scars all over my body, both literal and figurative.
I mentioned Xavier, but only briefly. Just that we’d met during the Carver case and later co-founded thePartners-in-Crimedetective agency. I didn’t get into the details—like how Xavier saved me from the Carver’s den, showing up with a police squad just in time to stop the bastard from cutting my heart out. And I definitely didn’t mention that we lived together now, sharing a cozy two-bedroom apartment-slash-work-office in the city center. It wasn’t like that would’ve been the strangest thing, especially with the cost of living crisis, but explaining it felt…complicated.
We spent the rest of the evening reminiscing about our college years and arguing over the Soccer World Cup semi-finals. After a few rounds of beer, we switched to tequila, and for the first time in days, I stopped thinking about Xavier entirely. I relaxed, letting myself just be a regular guy for a while.
By the time I made it home, it was after three in the morning.
How I’d even gotten there was a bit of a blur, but I tried to be quiet as I fumbled with my keys at the front door. My hands were clumsy, and it took me way too long to find the lock. Finally, the door creaked open, and I stumbled through the dark hallway, my feet dragging as I made my way toward the living room.
For a few seconds, I couldn’t figure out why it was so dark. My hand fumbled along the wall, searching for the light switch. Then I tripped over something—maybe a chair, maybe a shoe—and cursed loudly, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment.
Before I knew it, I was on the floor.
***
Everything around me blurs, the alcohol clouding my senses. Time seems to skip.
…a light flashes on, harsh and unkind, making me wince. Black pajama pants come into view.
“Ah, Xavier! Hello there,” I drawl, grinning up at the figure towering over me.
Xavier’s face appears above me—upside down, wearing an expression that is equal parts irritated and unimpressed.
“You’re drunk,” he says flatly, arms crossed.
“Who’s drunk?” I reply, my voice pitched in mock indignation.
The world swirls again, pulling me under.
***
That was last night.
When I woke up this morning, my head was pounding, and humiliation burned fresh in my chest. I blinked against the sunlight streaming through my window and groaned, vaguely relieved to find myself in my own bed and not sprawled on the living room floor.
Still, fragments of the night before stuck to my memory like burrs, each one more mortifying than the last. I couldn’t believe I came home wasted like that—let alone that Xavierwitnessed the whole thing. I thought I’d hit peak embarrassment—until I flipped to the second page of today’sThe Weekend Herald.
And here we are.
I frown, my eyes scanning the article again, agitation bubbling hot in my chest. It’s written by a journalist named Tammy Gardens, and it’s dripping with the cheap thrill of a supposed exposé. The tone is so sensationalized, in such poor taste, it almost feels personal.
