Page 147 of Detectives in Love

We don’t get to keep talking. Xavier’s phone rings, and he gets up to meet the ambulance downstairs. When he returns with two paramedics, Willand is with them, along with a couple of cops.

He looks like he just woke up—which, at this hour, he probably did.

“What on Earth happened here?” Willand asks, his voice pitching a little too high as the medics rush in with a stretcher. “Can you two go one day without something going horribly wrong?”

“Bridge’s killer broke into our apartment,” Xavier says, eyes fixed on the medics now crouched beside me, their frowns deepening as they examine my leg.

“Jesus, Newt—is that a knife?” Willand blurts out, his voice edged with real concern as he steps closer.

“Yeah,” I mutter, trying to play it down even as the pain spikes. “Think I’ll need stitches?”

One of the paramedics gives me a look like I’ve just asked if I can walk it off.

“Yes, you do,” he says. “You need stitches, a scan, and probably a hell of a lot of painkillers. We’re taking you to the emergency room.”

“I’ll go with you,” Xavier says instantly, but Willand cuts in.

“You need to stay and tell me what happened here, Xavier.”

Xavier turns to him, ready to argue, but before he can, I say, “Xavier.”

He looks at me—eyes locked, anxious. “Yeah?”

“Stay and tell them everything. I’ll be alright.”

His jaw tightens. He holds my gaze like he’s trying to will something into my head. Then he exhales, frustrated. “Wait—I’ll at least bring you your phone.”

“Thanks,” I say with a smile, masking the sharp pulse in my leg as the medics lift me onto the stretcher.

Xavier watches me for a moment, clearly not buying it. He sighs, concern flickering across his face, then turns and disappears into the kitchen.

Willand follows the exchange in silence, eyebrows lifting slightly like he’s just put something together. But he doesn’t say anything—just turns to the paramedics instead.

“Can you make sure nobody touches the knife without gloves? We’re going to need it as evidence—as soon as you get it out, obviously.”

One of the medics throws him a quick, unimpressed look over his shoulder, but gives a nod.

Soon Xavier’s back, pulling on a shirt as he walks, my phone in hand. The paramedics start wheeling me out of the apartment, and he trails right behind them, like he’s half-expecting them to drop the stretcher or bang it against a wall.

When they’re loading me into the ambulance, he reaches in to squeeze my hand, worry etched all over his face.

“You’re going to be alright,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “I’ll finish up with Willand and meet you at the hospital.” His eyes flick over me, and he adds, “I’ll bring you some clothes,” like the thought just occurred to him.

“Okay,” I say, squeezing his hand back.

Then the doors shut, and we’re on our way.

***

The knife’s out, thankfully. My thigh gets a thorough cleaning that stings more than I expect, six stitches, and a layer of medical glue to hold everything in place. After that, the on-call doctor heads off to print my discharge papers, and the nurse gives me a tetanus booster and finishes bandaging my leg. Then I get a painkiller shot in my right buttock—sharp going in, but the relief is almost immediate.

It’s nearly half past five in the morning, and even though I technically got seven hours of sleep, I can barely keep my eyes open. The exhaustion from the last few days has finally caught up to me.

While I wait for the doctor to come back, I check my phone. No new messages, but Xavier’s been texting every half hour since I left. Now that the cops are finally out of our apartment, I know he’s on his way.

I’m already debating whether to call him—my anxiety helpfully offering worst-case scenarios: Xavier collapsing somewhere on the way here from a mix of stress, lingering intoxication, and what I’m pretty sure (though never confirmed in the chaos of what happened) was a blow to the head from the intruder.

But before I can decide, the doctor returns with my paperwork—and my heart stutters when I see him with her. Xavier looks a little rumpled and wired, still shaken maybe, holding my backpack—presumably with clothes inside, thank God. I’m more than done wandering around the hospital in just my underwear.