Page 71 of Detectives in Love

The hallway flickers with relentless bursts of camera flashes, turning the dim space into a dizzying strobe of white light.

Xavier, with his back to the crowd, throws Bernard a dry look. “And how exactly do you suggest we do that?”

I can feel the tension radiating off him, but he doesn’t look at me—jaw tight, lips pressed into a line, eyes fixed on Bernard like I’m not even there.

Nimoy hesitates, then jerks his head toward the far end of the hallway. “Slip out the back. I’ll try to distract them. Once you’re through the gate, head down Bolton Gardens, take a left—you should be able to catch a cab there.”

“Thanks, Bernard,” I say quickly, and Xavier and I break into a run down the narrow corridor.

As soon as we’re out, a crisp breeze hits my face. The backyard is nothing more than a small patch of concrete, boxed in by a black fence. On the left, it runs straight into the side of the building; on the right, it ends at a gate.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out—one new message.

It’s from Fred Collins.

Fred:Newt, buddy, maybe we could meet for a beer tonight? ;)

I leave him on read and lock the screen, stuffing the phone back into my pocket. Fred is the last thing I want to deal with right now.

When I look up, I see Xavier already stepping out of the backyard.

“Xavier!” I call after him, but he doesn’t react, like he hasn’t heard me—shoulders stiff, back straight. “Xavier!”

I follow him—and that’s when I realize where we are. Same alley—the one where Bridge was killed.

Xavier just keeps walking toward the far end, never once turning back.

“Can you just stop?!” I say, catching up to him and grabbing his shoulder, forcing him to turn.

“What?” he mutters, letting out a breath—exasperated, like I’m the one being difficult.

“Where are you going?” My voice feels wrong—tight in my throat, as though it might break.

“To see Bridge’s wife.” His eyes don’t leave mine, but there’s a wall there now—cold, unreachable.

I hold his gaze, searching for something. I don’t know what I’m expecting. Maybe waiting for an explanation is asking too much. But I hoped for at least…something.

“Why are you pushing me away?” The words come out sharper than I mean them to, louder too.

“Pushing you away,” he repeats, like it catches him off guard.

“Yes,” I say. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Xavier, but just talk to me. Please.”

I wait—for a beat, for a breath, for anything that feels like him. But he just scoffs, like I’m overreacting, then says, softer, “If you’re coming with me—let’s go.”

He keeps walking.

I sigh, disappointment burning in my chest, and follow—barely holding myself from stopping him again and making a scene. Jesus, why is he like this, and why do I feel so helpless and stupid?

We step out of the alley onto the same quiet street the taxi dropped us off on when we got here. Small, fenced yards line both sides, each with black gates and narrow paths leading up to red-brick townhouses.

It takes us a couple of minutes to find the Bridge residence. We don’t talk, don’t look at each other. Just push open the gate and head straight for the porch.

Xavier knocks, and a moment later the door swings open, revealing a young woman with curly blonde hair, pale skin, and striking blue eyes.

“Mrs. Bridge?” Xavier asks.

She hesitates. “Yes?”