Page 135 of Detectives in Love

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.”