Page 93 of Detectives in Love

“Yeah,” I say, trying to smile. “I think we can take the pie out now.”

I crouch by the oven and pull open the door. A wave of warm, cherry-scented air hits my face—and just like that, I’m thinking about Xavier again.

“Your sister’s really smart, Newt,” Bernard says, lingering nearby. “Is it true she speaks seven European languages?”

I nod with a small smile, feeling a flicker of sympathy. Telling him she bats for the other team doesn’t feel like my place—if she wants him to know, she’ll tell him herself. So I just leave it there.

I take the pie out, cut it, grab some clean plates and forks. Bernard helps without being asked, and we carry everything back to the living room together.

Fred—now sporting a solid wine-flush—is still holding court, entertaining the ladies with some over-the-top story.

Katie’s in stitches. Monica’s smile looks suspiciously polite.

To be fair, the contrast probably has a lot to do with their drinks—Monica’s been nursing juice all night, while Katie’s made steady progress through the wine.

“I was just filling them in about you, Bernie,” Fred calls over as Bernard steps to the table with the plates.

“Oh? Anything juicy?” Bernard asks, helping me plate the pie.

“Just about how you got ahead thanks to our gay Foreign Minister,” Fred chuckles, turning to the others. “I’ve known Bernie for ages. Back when I was still at the Loreway office, we’d chat about work—he always came off as this proper, serious guy, like the model student of journalism. And now? Turns out he’s just like the rest of us. When there’s a career move to make, he’s not above digging up a little dirt.”

Bernard just snorts, handing him a plate. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve got bills to pay too.”

“I’ve been grilling him,” Fred adds, “about where he got those photos of the minister and his lover—but he won’t spill a word…”

“As I said, they were sent to me anonymously,” Bernard replies evenly.

“Anonymously?” Monica echoes, lifting a brow.

“It’s more common than you’d think,” I mutter, my mind flashing to yesterday’s conversation with Selena Hast.

“Can we talk about something else, guys? I’m getting a little worn out with all this journalist talk. No offense.”

Fred and Bernard just laugh, and Katie—thankfully—steers the conversation in a new direction, asking if anyone’s heard about the accident at Blue Bottle Bridge earlier today. The shift gives me a much-needed breather.

While the others chat, I nod along, tossing in the occasional “Yeah, exactly…” while quietly checking my phone for a message from Xavier.

Nothing.

Time crawls. When the clock hits ten and Katie says she should get going, the journalists take it as their cue to leave too. There’s a round of goodbyes—Fred and Bernard shake my hand, Katie gives me a quick peck on the cheek—and then they’re gone.

Once I’ve seen them off, Monica and I return to the living room.

Finally, the place is quiet.

“That was nice,” Monica says as she starts clearing the table. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Thanks for coming,” I say with a smile, stepping in to help. I can’t say the night was perfect—Fred, completely unaware, nearly outed me in front of everyone, which was stressful enough without the constant, gnawing thoughts about Xavier. But it could’ve been worse, I guess.

“Fred’s kind of a douchebag, isn’t he?” Monica says, like she’s reading my mind.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “He kind of is.”

There’s a pause before she glances over and says, “You look anxious. You need to rest.”

I nod. “Yeah. Think I had too much caffeine today.”

I grab a stack of plates and carry them into the kitchen, my headache now pounding in full force.