CHAPTER 2. RUMORS
For a few moments, I just stand there, staring at the closed door as my thoughts swirl. Then I shake it off, get dressed, and grab the satin belt from the bed.
When I step into the living room, Xavier is standing in front of the mirror, buttoning up one of his crisp white shirts. Once again, he’s treating our shared space like his personal dressing room—but, as usual, I let it slide.
My gaze dips—unintentionally, of course—to his chest in the reflection. Tanned, sculpted, annoyingly perfect. I snap my eyes back up before he can catch me staring.
“What did Willand want?” I ask. “Was it about the Rishetor case?”
“No,” Xavier says, fastening the cuff of his sleeve. “He’s still refusing to admit they’ve hit a dead end with Rishetor. But he said he’ll explain everything when we get there.”
“Right.” I nod, my thoughts drifting to Gordon and Crowley—two officers from Shorewitch PD who work under Willand.
Smug, insufferable, always looking for a chance to take shots at Xavier.
We’re going to see them today, and I’m already dreading it.
They’ll probably find the article in The Weekend Herald hilarious, and there’s no way they’ll keep quiet about it. God, I hope they haven’t seen it.
Xavier’s gaze meets mine in the mirror, then drops to the black satin belt in my hands. There’s the faintest flicker of surprise before his expression settles.
“Oh, is this yours?” I ask, lifting one end.
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes darken, the chill in them almost palpable.
“I won’t even ask what it was doing under my bed,” I say with a snort, tossing the belt onto the couch.
Xavier watches me for a moment longer, his face blank. Then, without a word, he turns, grabs his coat, and strides out, disappearing down the stairs.
***
The drive to SCPD is heavy with silence, both of us staring out our own windows, lost in thought.
Normally, I’d be the one to steer us back to normal after a fight.
I bounce back quickly—forget, move on. And since Xavier actually tried to apologize today for what happened in Little Italy, even if it was in his usual roundabout way, I’d normally have started talking by now, smoothing things over like always.
But today, I let the silence stretch. The longer we go without speaking, the better. If we slip back into our usual rhythm, Xavier will hear the awkwardness in my voice—and somehow, he’ll know about the article in The Weekend Herald. Better to hold it off for as long as I can.
When the cab pulls up in front of the towering glass building at 8-10 Hamilton Road, Xavier steps out without a word and heads straight for the main entrance. Above the doors, a polished shield spins lazily above its pole, gleaming in the morning light: Shorewitch Central Police Department.
I thank the driver and follow, catching up with Xavier at the metal detectors. We pass through one after the other, then head to the reception desk to collect our badges.
As we head for the elevators, I catch a few curious glances from officers in the corridor. Are they looking because we’re us—two of the most well-known detectives in the country? Or has everyone already read The Weekend Herald?
The thought twists in my stomach.
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?”
“Murder,” says Crowley.
Willand takes a stack of photographs from his desk and holds them out. “On Friday, they found Cormac Bridge’s body in the same alley where he was robbed last week.”
Xavier doesn’t reach for them, like he couldn’t care less. After a moment, I clear my throat and take the photos.
The images are brutal: a man sprawled in a pool of blood, the shots shifting between close-ups and wider angles. My stomach twists as I flip through them, each photo worse than the last.
I look at Xavier. He throws a brief glance at the photos in my hands but doesn’t give anything away.
“Bridge worked at a real estate company called Farewell Security for eleven years,” Willand says. “He had a wife and two kids. And we’ve got nothing—no leads, no suspects.”
“Farewell Security?” I frown, giving the photos back. “Odd name for a real estate company.”
“Yeah,” Willand says, distracted, then adds, “They’re a real estate company, but they also do smart homes—installing surveillance systems and all that.” He turns to Xavier, a flicker of hope crossing his face. “Will you take the case?”
Xavier hums, weighing it over, but before he can answer, Crowley cuts in.
“Mr. Sex doesn’t bother with small potatoes like that, boss,” she drawls, pure sarcasm in her voice.
I freeze, heat creeping up my neck.
Did she just say Mr. Sex? Or did I mishear? It had to be Mr. X…right?
“It sounds boring,” Xavier says, ignoring her completely. “Just a regular murder. I bet even Gordon could handle it.”
Gordon jolts upright, outrage flashing across his face, but Crowley cuts him off before he can speak.
“Since it’s all so simple, please, Mr. Sex, do take the case,” she says, mocking.
A jolt of adrenaline shoots through me. This time, I know I heard it—Mr. Sex.
I glance around the room, waiting for someone to react. Nothing. No raised eyebrows, no smirks, no laughter. Like it was all in my head.