Page 27 of Detectives in Love

“Where were you?”

“At the bar. At the bar, at the bar, at the bar… Met up with Fred. You don’t know him. He’s an old friend. An old friend from my past life. And where were you?”

“Here. It’s four in the morning.”

“Oh, baby, don’t be mad. Why are you mad?”

“Enough.”

“Were you worried about me, Xavy?”

“You’ll regret this in the morning.”

“Why are you frowning?… Oh, it’s soft here. Yes, I’m a bit drunk… a little tipsy. Where are you going? Wait…Xavier…”

“You need to sleep it off.”

“No. Come here, baby…”

***

First comes the pain—a dull, throbbing ache in my temples, pulsing at the back of my head.

Then, slowly, the world drifts into focus. Shapes emerge through the haze, washed in soft blue twilight. Light seeps through the heavy curtains, throwing faint shadows across the walls. My vision sharpens: a bedside table, a wardrobe against the far wall, a portrait of Somerset Maugham in a simple brown frame.

I try to roll over. Pain lances through my skull, sharp enough to make me wince. My mind’s still foggy, thoughts tangled—mostly about Xavier—fragments of dreams bleeding into reality.

I turn my head, forcing my heavy eyelids open. The familiar wallpaper. The dark outline of a door. Recognition settles as I breathe out, catching a faint trace of his scent on the pillow, the sheets, the comforter—so distinctly his.

With effort, I push up onto my elbows, leaning back against the solid wooden headboard.

This is Xavier’s room.

I try to piece together how I got here, but the pounding in my skull makes it hard to think straight. Somewhere in the apartment, muffled voices drift through the quiet, too faint to make out.

I sit up, my gaze finding the thin gap between the curtains. The light outside is dim—early evening, maybe. How long have I been out?

Fragments of memory start resurfacing: the Rishetor Center, Katie Fairfax, the journalists, the blond man…and then it clicks, piece by piece.

I remember Xavier carrying me to the car, trying to wake me up. Then bringing me home, asking if he should call a doctor. Beyond that, it’s all a blur.

I shove the comforter aside, instantly regretting it when a fresh wave of pain slams through my head. My body protests every movement, but I grit my teeth and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Barefoot, wearing only a T-shirt and boxers—my clothes nowhere in sight—I push myself up, cross the room, and step out into the hallway.

At the end of the corridor, light spills from the kitchen into the dark, but the room itself is empty.

“Xavier?” I call as I step inside. No answer.

I cross the kitchen and reach the living room doorway—then freeze.

For a moment, I honestly wonder if I’m still dreaming.

Monica, my sister, sits at the table with a teacup in hand. Beside her is Mrs. Waverly, our elderly neighbor. And in Xavier’s armchair by the fireplace sits Ernest Ormond, Xavier’s uncle. I’ve never seen him twice in one day before.

Having all of them in the same room feels surreal.

“Newton,” Ernest says, his gaze calm but weighing me in that familiar, quiet way of his. I’ve always hated when he uses my full name, like a teacher about to scold me.

“How are you feeling, dear?” Mrs. Waverly asks warmly, then goes right on, “Xavier told us what went on earlier. I had a feeling something like this might come up when Mr. Waverly mentioned the journalists outside today. I do hope you’re alright.”