Page 170 of Detectives in Love

“Nothing I regret,” Xavier says, a flicker of defiance in his face.

“I hope she didn’t kiss you,” I say with a snort, trying to cut the tension. But Xavier doesn’t so much as blink. His expression stays cold. When it becomes clear he’s not going to answer, I ask, “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?” he mutters, jaw tight.

“Like you hate me or something.” I try to keep my voice level, but the sting slips through. I don’t want to admit how much the emotional back-and-forth is wearing me down.

Xavier blinks, and for a second, there’s something in his eyes—something that almost looks like regret. But it’s gone before I can be sure.

“I don’t hate you,” he says. “I’m just not feeling well.”

“Oh. Okay,” I murmur, already regretting pushing. “Come on—let’s go home. We’ll deal with Fred later.”

But then Xavier says, “You go home. I need to be alone.”

“Alright,” I say, completely thrown, my eyes stinging with whatever this feeling is—and hating myself for it. Panic starts to rise, along with the urge to ask where he’s going, when he’ll be back, and what I did to make him act like this.

Before I can say anything else, the pub door swings open, and the waitress pokes her head out. “Hey, you didn’t pay for the coffee!”

“Money’s on the table,” Xavier says, voice flat. He gives me one last unreadable look—then turns and walks off.

I just stand there, watching him go, the disappointment settling hard in my chest.

CHAPTER 16. FLASH ROYAL

The ride home is all nerves and staring at my phone, torn between texting Xavier to demand answers and holding out for the stupid hope that he’ll text me first. That he’ll say something. I’m not even sure what I want to hear—just that he’s heading home, maybe. That he’s not done with me.

Outside, the gray sky blurs behind the murky taxi window, and I feel sick with how much this hurts. It makes no sense. Nothing really happened. And even if he is mad about Fred, I can’t see him holding onto it. That’s not Xavier. At least…it hasn’t been.

His moods blow over as fast as they hit, and the longest we’ve gone without talking was maybe two days. The longest we’ve ever been apart was that one day he got into Rishetor’s. So there’s no real reason to feel this kind of crushing, irrational dread.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself—but the feeling sticks. Like something’s gone wrong and I just don’t know what yet.

I think about texting Monica—she’d probably have something wise to say that would calm me down. But I’m not sure my pride can handle admitting just how unhinged I getover Xavier. Yesterday I was happy, practically giddy. Now I’m spiraling. So I shelve the idea.

When the taxi’s just a couple minutes from Hickory Road, it hits me—I can’t go home. Not yet. So I stop the driver, feeling like I’m in some cliché drama, and say, “Actually—turn around.”

***

It’s not Xavier I’m going after—though he’s in the back of my mind the entire ride toThe Chronicle. I’m going after Fred. And with every minute that passes, the sick feeling in my gut only gets worse. He pretended to bump into me like it was some harmless coincidence—but if he really was the one who bugged me while I was blackout drunk, then none of it was chance.

God, the thought that I brought that bastard into our apartment—our home—makes my skin crawl. What if he bugged the place? If he did, there’s a good chance the break-in will be in the papers today or tomorrow.

Xavier was right all along. As much as he tends to be wary of people in general, his gut is rarely wrong. I should’ve trusted that—shouldn’t have dismissed it as just his neurodivergent intolerance for loud, pushy types.

The cab stops right in front of the building where Fred brought us last time, pretending he was shielding us from the press. I get out, phone already in hand, and dial his number as I head toward the entrance. I stop outside, waiting for him to pickup—but he doesn’t. After a few rings, I hang up and push the door open.

The woman at the reception desk greets me with a bright smile.

“Welcome toThe Chronicle. Are you here to see someone?”

“Yes,” I say, trying to keep my voice polite and not let the anger bleed through. “Fred Collins. Is he in today?”

“Let me check,” she says, still smiling as she picks up the phone. “What’s your name?”

“Newt Doherty.”

While she dials, I just stand there, not even thinking about what I’m going to say to him. I’ll improvise—whatever comes out, comes out.