Page 60 of Detectives in Love

The second I step into the hallway, voices drift from farther down. I freeze, one hand still on the doorknob, breath caught in my throat.

“…disappointed when you tell Newton.”

“This is none of your business, so please stop it.”

“You’re acting like a child, dear nephew.”

“So be it. I don’t need anyone’s pity, including yours. I’ll manage just fine on my own, thanks.”

Xavier and Ernest. In the kitchen.

I let go of the doorknob and inch forward a step, heart climbing, straining to hear more—but nothing else comes.

Just as I think about retreating, the bedroom door creaks behind me. I flinch, glancing back, but it’s too late. From up ahead, I hear Ernest clear his throat—pointedly.

Well. So much for sneaking away.

I straighten my shoulders, cross the rest of the hallway, and step into the kitchen.

Xavier and Ernest are locked in what looks like a silent staring contest. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.

“Morning,” I mumble.

Xavier, unreadable as ever, barely glances my way. Across from him, Ernest—immaculate in a brown three-piece suit—plasters on a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Good morning,” he says, drawing out each syllable like it pains him. He squints at me once—then again, slower. His lips curl into a smirk before he turns back to Xavier.

“Something you wanted to tell me?” I ask, cutting through the air between them.

Xavier doesn’t move. “My uncle wants to apologize for the cameras.”

I frown and turn to Ernest.

“Not in the slightest,” he replies smoothly, crossing one leg over the other and flicking imaginary dust from his pants. His smile stays tight.

“Then why are you here, sitting in my kitchen at nine a.m.?” Xavier says, taking a slow sip of coffee. Wrapped in his black robe, he looks completely unbothered.

“Wanted to check in,” Ernest says coolly. “You didn’t respond to my messages yesterday.”

“That was probably on purpose,” Xavier says, irritation creeping into his voice.

I freeze. But Ernest doesn’t even acknowledge it. His gaze shifts back to me—runs over my bare chest, then drifts toward the hallway behind me.

“Don’t hover in the doorway, Newton,” he says, and lets it hang. His narrowed eyes make it clear he’s not thrilled about whatever he thinks happened last night.

The look he gives me makes my skin itch, like I’ve been shoved under a spotlight I didn’t ask for. For a second, I think about going back to my room to throw on a T-shirt—twice in one week is too much to be half-naked in front of Ernest Ormond.

But I shove the thought away, pull out a chair, and sit.

Big mistake.

The second I do, I catch where his eyes go. My chest. The scars. Then the bruises.

His expression shifts—barely—but I catch it. Something like discomfort. Maybe even concern. He looks like he’s about to ask something, but he doesn’t.

I clear my throat and fold my arms over my chest.

Xavier, who had been sipping his coffee like this was all a minor inconvenience, suddenly picks up on the shift. His posture stiffens. He narrows his eyes at his uncle.