Page 176 of Detectives in Love

As I head toward the Shorewitch Police Department, I try to convince myself that Xavier could be anywhere—just walking around, sulking, maybe chasing some lead that has nothing to do with Bernard Nimoy or the Bridge case. Maybe he only now got toThe Chronicleand is talking to Fred the way I did.

But my gut says that’s not it. He figured it out back at the pub. And pushing me away was him trying to keep me out of it. Keep me safe. From Bernard.

I called Willand first, tried to explain everything and asked him to send someone after Bernard Nimoy, but he started asking questions and eventually told me to come in—probably figured it was too much to make sense of over the phone. So now I’m on my way, very annoyed I have to waste time on this. I tried Fred, but his phone’s off, so I texted asking for Bernard’s number. Thought about messaging Ernest too but figured I should talk to Willand first—no point panicking the older Ormond until I know more.

As I sit in the back of the cab, phone in hand, checking the screen every ten seconds, all I can think about is how much I hate taxis—and how Xavier and I really need to buy a car once this case is over. We’ll drive to cases together and go home after. The thought gives me a bit of comfort—makes me believe there’s going to be an after.

When the cab finally pulls up to the station, I jump out, the cool wind catching my hair, and head straight for the entrance. I push through the doors and metal detectors, grab a visitor pass, and move fast through the lobby toward the elevators, barely registering the people around me.

As soon as the elevator doors open, I step in with a couple of officers. I can feel them looking at me, curious, but I don’t care. I count every second as the elevator crawls upward, people getting in and out, one floor after another. Finally, the fifth.

I walk fast down the hallway to Willand’s office and push the door open without knocking.

He’s by the window on the phone. When he sees me, he gives a quick nod and gestures toward the chair. I stay standing—too on edge to sit—and wait while he finishes.

When he hangs up, he turns to me and says, “Tell me what’s going on.”

“We don’t have time,” I say, the pressure in my chest tightening—but he cuts me off.

“I’ve already filed a request to trace Bernard’s phone,” he says. “We’ll have to wait, but I marked it urgent.” He sits down, motioning for me to do the same. “I’ve also sent two units to his office and his home. So now, I need you to tell me what’s going on.”

A flicker of relief cuts through the panic—at least Willand took me seriously. Maybe we still have a shot at stopping Bernard before things get worse.

I sink into the chair across from him, only now realizing how tense I’ve been. My legs feel shaky, like I’ve finally stopped running.

“You remember Cormac Bridge?” I say, and Willand nods. “He was in charge of installing cameras in all the Farewell Security homes.”

“I know,” Willand says, his voice calm. “But what does Bernard have to do with this?”

I’m about to continue, but the door behind me opens. I glance over my shoulder and see Crowley step in. Her expression is unusually serious—none of the dry amusement she usually wears. She gives Willand a brief look, then stays by the door, silent.

Willand turns his attention back to me, waiting.

“I think…” I start, then pause—because even now, saying it out loud feels as ridiculous as it did over the phone. “I think Bernard killed Cormac Bridge.”

“I gathered that,” Willand says patiently. “But how are they connected, exactly?”

“Remember the scandal about Minister Craig and his special advisor?”

Willand frowns, clearly thrown.

“What—that they’re…gay?” he says the last word cautiously, and I can already see him starting to connect the dots between that story and the one about Xavier and me.

“Yes,” I say, trying to keep the sudden flicker of embarrassment out of my voice. “Bernard was the one covering the whole thing.”

Willand gives a slow nod, still not quite following.

“Christopher Hill,” I say. “The minister’s advisor. Bridge went to his house the day he died—he was one of the clients in Bridge’s calendar. The last one, actually.”

“Okay,” Willand says, trying to keep up.

“I know it sounds weird, but bear with me,” I go on. “Bridge was there to fix the cameras. But what if Bernard broke in while he was still inside—digging for dirt on the minister and his lover?”

Willand frowns but doesn’t interrupt.

“What if Bridge caught him, Bernard panicked, ran—and later followed him and killed him?”

“Then why didn’t Bridge report the break-in?” Willand asks.