Detectives in Love, page 26
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low, a little slurred. “I didn’t mean ever.”
He hesitates, and I look anywhere but at him, because if I meet his eyes right now, I’m pretty sure I’ll cry.
Then he adds, softer this time, “I meant don’t touch me today. I feel like a live wire, and it’s hard to…uh. I think I’ve hit my embarrassment quota for the day.”
That’s when I look at him again, my heart pounding. He meets my eyes for only a second—then suddenly lifts my hand, presses a kiss to it, and brings it to his cheek, closing his eyes as he holds it there, just breathing.
I want to hug him. God, I want to. But after what he just said, I don’t. I stay still, watching him, my pulse loud in my ears.
After a moment, he opens his eyes and lowers my hand, but he doesn’t let go. Just keeps holding it, his fingers brushing over my knuckles.
“Xavier,” I say softly, like a whisper might keep this moment from breaking. “Let me go talk to the witnesses. I can stop by Mrs. Bridge’s too—if you tell me what you want from her. But you stay here. Eat. Sleep.” I pause. “Please. I need you back to normal.”
I want him back—because I need him okay, but also because I need to know what’s real and what’s not. I need to know where we stand now.
He doesn’t argue, just nods and lets go of my hand. Then he yanks the sweater off, throws it to the floor, and climbs back into bed. I watch as he slides under the comforter and pulls the tray closer, starting to eat with the kind of focus that makes it look like he’s powering through a chore. I can’t help smiling at that.
As I leave the room, I pause at the door and glance back.
“Hey, mind if I pull the schedule from Bridge’s laptop? The one with all the addresses?”
“I’ll send it over,” Xavier says, without looking up.
“Thanks,” I say, and wait until his eyes meet mine. “I’ll be back soon, alright? Just call me if you need anything.”
He nods again but doesn’t say anything, so I leave, closing the door behind me.
In the living room, I grab my shoes and jacket, then check my phone. Xavier’s already sent the schedule. I pull up the first address in the taxi app and order a ride.
I wait by the window, not heading out until I see the car arrive—just in case the paparazzi are still lurking. But they’re not. So when I open the front door and step outside, the walk to the cab is smooth. No one stops me. Which makes sense—they got what they came for. I handed it to them myself.
As the car pulls away, I rest my head against the window, watching the buildings slide past.
Hopefully we crack the Bridge case by next week so I can finally take a break. From the journalists. The drama. The anxiety. The city.
Maybe visiting my mom isn’t such a bad idea. Sure, she’ll drive me crazy by the end of day one—but walking around my hometown, where no one but her gives a shit about the mess of my life, might actually do me some good.
For a moment, I let myself wonder what it would be like if Xavier came with me. I don’t know how much of the Xavier from today I can trust—between the poisoning and the meds—but I can fantasize, just for now. Us walking around my hometown, getting bored out of our minds. Sleeping in, drinking coffee, reading, wandering through parks.
God, what’s wrong with me? Am I actually dreaming about a boring old man life?
I think I am. These past few days—weeks, really—have been a lot. Even for me. So maybe a little boring is exactly what I need.
I spend the whole ride lost in thought, and when the driver finally says, “We’re here,” it takes me a second to register that the car’s already stopped. I step out onto a quiet, narrow street lined with three-story buildings, check the address, and find the right entrance. Then I knock.
A few moments later, the door opens, and a man steps out—elegant, in his early fifties, dressed in a silk blue shirt and black pants.
“Mr. Colfridge?” I ask.
“Yes?”
“I’m Newt Doherty. I work with SCPD. I just have a few questions about Farewell Security, if that’s alright.”
He gives me a quick once-over, then steps aside to let me in. I walk past him, and he closes the door behind me.
“Why are you asking about Farewell again?” he says as I follow him down a narrow hallway lined with bulky candelabras. “Your people were already here—what else do you need?”
We pass a carpeted staircase winding up to the second floor, then step into a cozy living room with a red rug, gold-framed paintings, a pair of armchairs, and a lit fireplace.
Peak old-man living.
“I know,” I say, evasive. “Just double-checking a few things.”
“They never told me what happened, by the way,” he says, gesturing for me to sit. “I hope you’re not about to tell me it’s some scam company that’s been robbing houses.”
“Nothing like that,” I say, shaking my head as I settle into the chair. “But one of their employees—Cormac Bridge—was murdered the day he came to install your cameras. Do you remember him?”
“Murdered?” Mr. Colfridge frowns as he sits into the armchair across from me. “The man who did the installation?”
“That’s right. Do you remember what time he was here?”
“Around half past ten in the morning. He was quick—done in about an hour.”
“Did he seem off to you in any way?” I ask.
The man shakes his head, thinking. “No… I didn’t notice anything odd. But—who killed him?”
“We don’t know yet,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”
“I see.” He nods slowly, still processing. “He seemed like a normal guy. He was in a good mood, actually. Cracked a few jokes, told me he’d just come back from a trip to Japan. I’m sorry—I don’t think I have anything else that could help.” He falls quiet for a beat, his gaze drifting toward the fireplace. The room hums with silence, filled only by the soft crackle of burning logs. Then, almost like he’s remembered something, he adds, “Would you like some coffee and a muffin? I made a batch earlier, but I live alone—can’t finish them by myself.”
“Oh—thank you, but I’ve got to get going,” I say with a smile.
“I can give you a couple to go,” he offers, smiling—and there’s a warmth in the way his gaze lingers. “Chocolate chip. I’m actually a pretty decent baker, if I say so myself.” He blinks, studying my face like he’s waiting for a yes.
“Alright,” I say, mostly because I’d feel bad turning him down. “I’ll take one to go.”
He lights up and hurries off to the kitchen. I move to the hallway, standing there awkwardly until he returns a minute later with a Tupperware container in hand. Looks like there are at least five muffins inside.
“That’s way too much for me,” I start, but he shakes his head.
“Please, take them,” he says, gently pushing the container into my hands. “They’re dangerously addictive, and if I keep them, I’ll just end up eating every last one.”
“Thanks,” I say, eyeing the container. “But let me at least return it—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he cuts in with a wave. “You can keep it, if you want. Or toss it in the recycling.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” He smiles again, eyes warm and crinkled at the corners.
“That’s very kind of you,” I say. “I should get going now—thanks again.”
“Just in case,” Mr. Colfridge says, pulling a business card from his pocket and handing it to me. “If you need anything else, just give me a call.”
“Thanks,” I reply, taking it as he opens the door.
Outside, I tuck the Tupperware under my arm and pull out my phone to order a taxi to the next address. Then I wait on the curb, watching the street.
That’s when my phone buzzes.
I glance at the screen. Monica.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Hello, little brother,” she says, her tone already suspicious.
“Hey, Mon. How are you?”
“I’m fine. How are you?” she shoots back. “Did he come home?”
“Who?” I ask, stalling even though I know exactly who she means.
“Xavier.”
“Yeah.”
“So you two made up?”
“Uh-huh,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Are you working today?”
“Yes, but don’t change the subject,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “So you’re not sad anymore?”
“No, I’m good,” I say, smiling before I even realize it. I don’t want to overthink it. I just feel good.
There’s a brief pause on her end. Then her tone shifts, suspicious again. “Wait. You’re too happy. What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say, but I already know I’m a terrible liar.
“Newt,” she says, suddenly serious. “Are you two actually together?”
There’s another pause.
“No, of course not,” I snort, rolling my eyes.
“Newt, I know exactly what it sounds like when you’re lying your ass off—and you’re doing it right now,” she says, mock-annoyed. Then she goes quiet for a beat before letting out a gasp of realization. “Wait, wait, wait. Did you guys fuck?”
“Oh god,” I sigh, cringing so hard my face hurts. This is not a conversation I want to have with my sister.
“You did, didn’t you?” she presses. “Don’t lie to me, Newton.”
“We kissed,” I say at last—leaving out the part where Xavier had me on my back, grinding into me with his hard cock, or the part where he jerked me off with his hand slick from his own cum. A kiss did happen, so technically, I’m not lying.
Monica lets out a squeal so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear.
“I called it!” she shouts. “I called it, I called it, I called it!”
“Shut up,” I say, though my smile’s stretching wider by the second. “It doesn’t mean anything. He was sort of…poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” I can practically hear her raising an eyebrow. “Poisoned with love for you?” she giggles.
“Oh, shut it,” I huff, just as I spot a cab pulling up. “I have to go, Mon. I’m in the middle of something.”
“In the middle of kissing Xavier?” she teases, her voice slipping right back into that childhood sing-song tone.
“How old are you, three?” I grumble, trying to sound annoyed—but I’m not. It actually feels…weirdly good to admit that maybe—just maybe—some of it meant something.
“I’m happy for you, little brother,” Monica says, and there’s real warmth in her voice. “You’re a bit old for a coming out party, but hey—you were always a late bloomer.”
“Ha-ha,” I mutter, lips twitching as I reach the taxi. “Talk later. I’ve gotta go.”
“Fine. Say hi to Xavier.”
“I won’t,” I say, and hang up.
As I slide into the car, the smile creeps back onto my face. And for a few minutes, as we pull away and turn onto the main road, I just sit there, grinning to myself like an idiot.
Then I unlock my phone and type out a quick message to Xavier.
Me: How are you feeling? I talked to the first witness. Didn’t learn anything useful but got some muffins to go.
I snap a photo of the Tupperware container on my lap and send that too.
I don’t expect a reply so soon, but it comes within a minute.
Xavier: Better. Which witness?
Me: Colfridge, I write back. Heading to the next one now.
Xavier: How old is he/she?
I pause, wondering what that has to do with anything—but with Xavier, who knows.
Me: He’s a he. Not sure. Early fifties? Why?
I frown, watching the screen. Xavier’s typing—then stops. Starts again.
Xavier: Well, he gave you the container
Me: So?
Xavier: Was he coming on to you?
I pause, completely confused.
Me: Erm, I don’t think so. Why?
Xavier: That’s a very old trick, Newt. He gave you the container so you’d have to return it.
I snort at the absurdity—then pause. The guy did say I didn’t have to bring it back, sure, but he also smiled a lot. And gave me his business card. Maybe Xavier has a point. Not that I’d admit it.
Me: I’m not going to return it, if that’s what you’re asking ;)
I brace for something snarky in return. But what I get is…different.
Xavier: I know you’re not. With your plans and all
I frown. What does that mean? Is he still high on diazepam? It seemed like it was already wearing off when I left.
Me: My plans?
Xavier: Well, you promised to marry me
I blink, heat rushing to my face. What?
I start typing—Did you check your temperature?—but before I can hit send, another message pops up.
Xavier: And get a dog together
Oh. My. God.
The second it hits me, my face burns—like someone rubbed chili oil all over it. The fucking paparazzi.
If Xavier’s seen my confession, that means the whole world has too.
I freeze, scrambling for something nonchalant to say. But there’s nothing. Because yeah. I really did say that.
All I can manage is—
Me: How did you even find it?
Xavier: I didn’t. My uncle did. He called me—very scandalized. I think he has a Google alert set up for my name or something.
Me: Fuck
Me: Sorry
Me: I was pissed.
There’s a pause—then three messages come in at once:
Xavier: Don’t be
Xavier: It’s kind of cute
Xavier: Might make it my alarm tone
I type the reply, ears burning.
Me: Well, now there’s going to be even more rumors about us. Crowley’s going to have a field day.
Xavier reads it—but doesn’t reply.
I stare at the screen for a couple of minutes, waiting. Nothing. Just “Read.”
And of course, I start spiraling. Did that come off like I’m embarrassed? Ashamed? Shit. That’s not what I meant—but it kind of sounds like it. I should probably say something else. Clarify. But how?
What am I supposed to do—tell him I’m possibly deeply in love with him? That I wouldn’t mind marrying him and getting a dog together? That it actually sounds like a dream retirement plan?
Right. Sure.
Maybe I’m overthinking. Maybe he just didn’t know what to say. Or maybe he fell asleep. Yeah. That’s probably it.
Still, I spend the rest of the ride to the next witness second-guessing my message.
The taxi drops me off in front of a polished black door—number six Coulson Street. Just as I’m stepping out, the door swings open and a woman walks out. Barbara Sollors, apparently. Mid-forties, long gray hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, aquiline nose.
“Hi there, ma’am,” I say, trying to get her attention as she turns to lock the door behind her.
She glances at me, then does a quick double take.
“Hello,” she says, straightening a little. Her posture shifts—cautious now. “Do I know you?”
“No,” I say, “My name is Newt Doherty—I’m with SCPD—”
“I’m sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry,” she cuts in, slipping her keys into her bag as she moves to pass me.
I fall into step beside her.
“I won’t take much of your time, ma’am. This is important.”
She sighs, a little exasperated, but keeps walking toward her car parked across the street.
“Alright. Is this about Farewell Security again?”
I nod. “The technician who came to install your cameras—Cormac Bridge—was murdered. Same day he did your setup.”
She pauses by her Audi, pulling out her keys. Her eyebrows lift.
“Murdered? That same day?”
“Yes.”
“Well…” Her tone is flat. “That’s unfortunate. But what does that have to do with me?”
“Do you remember what time he came to install the cameras?”
“Around noon, I think,” she says with a shrug. “But I didn’t really talk to him. I was on a work call—he came in, did his thing, and left. I just opened the door, signed some papers, and we had a quick chat about how the system works. That was it.”
“Did anything about him seem unusual?” I ask, already expecting the answer.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “To be honest, I didn’t really pay him much attention. Can I go now?”
“Sure,” I nod. “Thanks for your time, ma’am.”
She gives a brief nod and gets into her car. I head back up the road, pulling out my phone to check the next address.
The third witness, Christopher Hill, lives in Arana—the upscale part of Shorewitch where most of the city’s wealthiest residents have their homes.
It’s only a ten-minute drive, and for the first few minutes, I just sit back and try to clear my head. But then, against my better judgment, I pull out my phone and google the news about Xavier and me—just to see how bad it is. The answer: bad. Dozens of headlines, each one more ridiculous and speculative than the last. I close the browser with a sigh and spend the rest of the ride staring out the window.
When the cab drops me off, I start down the street, passing one perfect house after another, each tucked behind its own gate and fence. It’s a quiet neighborhood—the kind where even the air feels expensive. I keep walking, eyes scanning the house numbers, until I spot the right one: black iron railings, neatly trimmed hedges, clean white façade.
I pause in front of it, pull out my phone, and send Xavier a quick text before heading in.
Me: Are you asleep?
Then I press the buzzer at the gate. It clicks open almost immediately. I step into the small yard, still patchy with melting snow, and walk up the driveway toward the porch. Just as I reach it, the front door swings open.
A man around my age opens the door, looking at me with a flicker of confusion.
“You’re not the delivery guy,” he says, frowning.
He’s handsome, with soft features, clear blue eyes, and neatly styled hair. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, though I can’t quite place it.
