Page 86 of Detectives in Love
Unable to wait any longer, I push to my feet and head for Xavier’s room, my resolve settling with every step. I knock—loudly—then go still.
Silence.
I push the door open.
“Xavier?”
No answer.
The windows are shut, the curtains drawn, the bed neatly made.
Empty.
A wave of disappointment hits me, hard enough that my legs almost give out.
When did he leave? How? Was he even home last night?
I step inside, glance around just in case, then sit on the bed. My shoulders ache, and I’m suddenly aware of how tired I am. I sit there for a long moment, staring at the bed—the same one where I’d slept in his arms. The room feels too quiet.
Damn it, where is he?
Somewhere in the kitchen, my phone starts ringing. My heart jumps. I rush to grab it, hoping it’s him. But when I check the screen, it’s Monica.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Are you okay?” she asks instead of saying hello. “You sound off.”
“Yeah.” I let out a heavy sigh. “What did you want?”
“To talk. Are you deliberately ignoring my calls?”
“No.” I let the line hang.
“Let’s meet up tonight.”
“I can’t.”
“What’s wrong?”
I sigh again. “Nothing, I’m just busy.”
“When can you meet then?”
I roll my eyes but make myself stay patient. “Listen, if you’re free, come by tonight around six. I’m expecting guests, but honestly, I don’t even feel like seeing them anymore, so I wouldn’t mind the backup.”
Monica’s voice softens. “Okay,” she says, sounding a little brighter. “Who are the guests?”
“Just friends,” I say. “We’ll talk later, okay? See you at six.”
“Alright,” she says, and I can tell she wants to ask more but holds back. “See you.”
She hangs up.
I lock my phone and stand there, motionless in the middle of the kitchen. The apartment is silent.
For a while, I manage to shove Xavier out of my mind. My feelings for him have been so all over the place these past few days, I’ve barely been able to focus on the investigation. So I pour myself a large cup of coffee and settle onto the living room couch with the Bridge case file, flipping through witness statements and the autopsy report. But I keep circling the same dead ends, like there’s a piece missing—something that would tie it all together.
I let out a sigh, feeling useless—my thoughts are scattered, my brain a mess. Eventually, I give up and decide to take the day off. I make a grocery list for the party, head to the supermarket, try to reset.
