Page 7 of Detectives in Love

The elevator doors slide open, and Xavier steps inside, his frown deepening. I follow, glancing back just in time to catch the girl at the information desk practically devouring him with her eyes.

Before I can get a better look—or roll mine—the doors close, and the elevator starts up.

Xavier exhales sharply and shifts his weight, impatience radiating off him. I clear my throat. It’s been a while since the silence between us has felt this…awkward.

Thankfully, twenty seconds later, the elevator jerks to a stop. The doors slide open on the fifth floor, and I step out, Xavier following close behind.

We weave through glass-walled departments, the clatter of keyboards and ringing phones filling the air. A right turn, then another, and we finally reach the Robbery-Homicide Unit.Xavier pushes the door open, and we step into Chief Willand’s office.

He’s already inside, jotting dates on the whiteboard. My heart sinks when I spot Gordon and Crowley too, sitting in front of him.

“Good morning,” I say, already bracing for whatever comes next.

“Ah, just in time,” Willand mutters, glancing over his shoulder. His face is all sharp angles, with thick, bushy eyebrows and a matching mustache.

Gordon and Crowley turn toward us in near-perfect sync—like villains out of a spy movie, missing only cats in their laps.

“Good morning, Mr. Doherty,” Crowley says smoothly, her gaze flicking between me and Xavier. “Mr. Ormond.” A crooked smirk tugs at her lips. “How’s your weekend going?”

Her eyes settle on me, the smile sharpening just enough to make my skin crawl.

I fight the urge to shift under her stare. Did she read the article? Crowley’s smile always has an edge—half mocking Xavier, half patronizing me—but today, it’s different. Almost venomous.

Above us, the fluorescent light buzzes faintly, then flickers—like a bad omen hanging overhead, warning that nothing good waits here.

You’re being paranoid,I tell myself. People have better things to do than obsess over a tabloid story about me and Xavier.

But the unease sticks, refusing to fade.

“Hello, Officer Crowley,” Xavier says smoothly, his tone edged with quiet disdain. The sound pulls me out of my thoughts. He shifts his gaze to Gordon. “Officer Gordon.”

Gordon doesn’t reply. Instead, he trades a glance with Crowley—so perfectly matched it feels practiced. No wonder Xavier calls them Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

My unease tightens, coiling in my gut.

“Please, have a seat,” Willand says, gesturing to the empty spots across from him as he settles into his leather chair. “Remember that robbery in Fulton? We could really use your help on it. We’re swamped—three unsolved murders on our hands…”

“So you finally decided to share?” Xavier drawls, raising an eyebrow as he drops into the seat beside me. “We’ve already told you we’re not interested in the Bridge case. On my scale, it’s a two at best—and for a two, I don’t even get out of my bed. Neither does Newt.”

The room goes still, Xavier’s words landing like a slap no one saw coming.

Willand stares straight ahead, pretending he didn’t catch the implication. Crowley snorts into her hand, and Gordon’s smirk widens as his gaze slides to me.

Heat creeps up my neck, and I fix my eyes on the World War II-era poster behind Willand, acting like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room.

Xavier, either oblivious or just shameless, doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re swapping cases like kids trading toys. How about sharing the Rishetor case? Or are you still under the illusion you can crack it without us?”

“The Rishetor case isn’t up for discussion, Xavier,” Willand says, his voice edged with exasperation. “We’ll handle it ourselves. That’s not why I called you here.”

“Fine,” Xavier says easily, leaning back in his chair, amusement flickering across his face. “When you finally give up, let me know. And while we’re at it—don’t forget about that third case you tucked away in your desk.”

Willand’s brow furrows, caught off guard. “What?”

“The gray folder,” Xavier says smoothly, his voice calm but laced with smugness. He leans forward slightly, gaze locking on Willand. “I saw you slip it into your desk drawer. The pages are covered in stickers—something you only do when you’re organizing a case for the first time. Judging by the fresh ink on the top page, you must’ve gotten it Friday and spent yesterday marking it up, which means it’s urgent.” He leans back again, completely at ease. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong,” Willand admits, his jaw tightening. “But we’ll handle that case ourselves, thank you very much.” His tone sharpens as he adds, “I’m offering you a different toy. The robbery in Fulton has turned into something more serious.”

I frown. “What?”