Page 49 of Detectives in Love
I sigh, completely lost. “What’s going on, Xavier?” I try to keep my tone neutral. Neither of us is great at this kind of talk, but his sudden mood swings the past couple days have been…a lot.
“What’s going on?” he echoes flatly.
“You’re acting weird around me. Weirder than usual.”
“Nothing’s going on,” he says, sharper now, arms crossing over his chest.
“Is this about Katie?” The words are out before I can stop them—and I immediately regret it. It sounds like we’re acouple or something, like I’m asking if he’s jealous of my friend, and the thought alone sends heat crawling up my neck.
Xavier’s eyes narrow. He hesitates—just for a second—then says, “No.”
“Okay. Then what is it?”
“Nothing,” he says, though it’s obvious that’s not true. “Let’s just eat. Then we’ll check the apartment for bugs.” He drains the rest of his coffee like he’s done talking.
We eat in silence after that, both of us cooling off. Xavier scrolls through something on his phone, throwing the occasional glance my way like he’s waiting for me to finish eating. When I do, he gets up and does the dishes without a word. Then he turns to me.
“Are you ready?” he asks, voice softer now, almost apologetic.
“Yeah,” I say, matching his tone, willing to let it go. “Where do we start?”
“Your bedroom,” he says.
And I hope that’s just because we’re going top to bottom, not because he actually thinks it might be bugged.
We head upstairs. Xavier steps into the middle of the room, scans it like he’s assessing a crime scene, then plants his hands on his hips.
“Let’s start with the wardrobe and the bed. I’ll take the bed.”
“Fine. I’ll take the wardrobe,” I say, though something about him going through my bed feels…off.
“Be thorough,” Xavier says, giving me a pointed look. “Check every corner.”
I nod. “Okay.”
We search in silence for a while.
I finish with the main wardrobe compartment and glance over. Xavier’s kneeling beside the stripped bed—comforter, pillow, and sheet folded neatly at the foot—just staring at the floor.
“Xavier?”
He looks up. In the daylight, the bruise on his cheekbone is a dull smear of yellow and purple, but it’s the shadows under his eyes that stand out more.
We both seriously need to sleep.
“There’s nothing here,” he says, snapping out of whatever daze he was in. He pushes to his feet and heads toward the small bookshelf in the far right corner of the room.
Silence falls again as we keep searching. I go back to sifting through clothes, but my mind drifts—back to last night’s trip to the crematorium. Well, not even the trip itself. As scary and exhilarating as it was, what sticks with me are the moments around it: when he held my hand in the car, or pinned me against the wall in that dark corner under the stairs, or later, in our apartment, when he traced my scars like he wanted to know them by memory.
Honestly, it throws me.
How Xavier can be so gentle one moment—like last night—and then the next, he’s distant again, pulling away likenone of it ever happened. It’s hard to keep up. Harder not to take it personally.
His voice cuts through my thoughts. “Found a camera.”
I turn to him, startled. He nods toward the top of the bookshelf.
I hurry over, caught completely off guard. “Where?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.
