CHAPTER 3. OUT
I flinch as a wave of journalists surges forward, closing in fast.
“Mr. Ormond! Mr. Ormond!”
“How would you describe your relationship with Mr. Doherty?”
“Are you two really friends with benefits?”
“What’s the real story between you two?”
“Newt, is it true Xavier confessed he’s in love with you?”
Snow crunches under our feet as they press closer, our collars turned up against the biting wind. Microphones and recorders jab at us, questions firing from every direction.
Police try to hold the crowd back, but it barely slows them. The journalists keep pushing, relentless, their voices rising over one another.
I push through the swarm, forcing my way past the wall of journalists. Xavier stays just behind me—I can feel him keeping pace, both of us caught in the crush of bodies with nowhere to go but forward.
It’s a nightmare. My heart pounds, my mind spinning, locked on one thought—Xavier. All morning, I’d been desperate to keep that article from him, to shield him from this. Now it’s blown up in my face, a storm of flashing cameras and shouted accusations.
My breath catches, panic rising fast. Someone shouts Xavier’s name, another calls mine, and suddenly I realize—we’re surrounded.
Out of nowhere, a hand grabs mine.
“This way, Newt! To the car!”
Fred Collins’ voice cuts through the chaos. Relief surges through me as I turn toward him, letting him pull me forward.
Without thinking, I reach back and grab Xavier’s wrist, trying to pull him with me. But he doesn’t move. That’s when I turn to look at him—and freeze.
Xavier’s pale under the swirling snow and flashing lights, his eyes unfocused, almost dazed. He looks…not like himself, and for a split second, I wonder if he’s about to pass out. Before I can say anything, a journalist in a glaring magenta coat shoves herself between us, cutting me off.
“Xavier Ormond!” she gushes, her voice syrupy, like she’s narrating a tacky infomercial. “With all the attention on you, how do you even find time to be happy?”
Beside her, a bald guy with a shoulder-mounted camera angles for a close-up of Xavier’s face.
Xavier blinks, focus snapping back, his jaw tightening.
“That’s none of your business,” he says, his voice even, expression cold.
The journalist’s eyes light up, thrilled he’s engaging. “Selena Hast, Romford Recorder,” she gushes. “What can you tell us about your relationship with Mr. Doherty? Did he say it back? Is it just sex, or are there real feelings involved?”
Xavier goes rigid, whatever color was left in his face vanishing completely.
Alright. I’ve had enough.
Without thinking, I shove her aside, clearing a path for Xavier without ceremony.
“Move,” I snap, forcing us forward through the crush of shouting journalists and flashing cameras toward Fred Collins’ car.
The white Bentley Continental feels like a lifeline in the chaos. I get Xavier in first, then climb in after him and pull the door shut.
Relief washes over me as the locks click shut, sealing us off from the frenzy outside. The car pulls away, flashing lights and shouting voices shrinking in the rearview.
“You okay?” I ask, turning to Xavier.
Snowflakes cling to his dark hair and lashes, melting into tiny beads of water. He nods but doesn’t meet my eyes, his gaze skimming past me, uneasy.
“What a circus!” Fred says from the driver’s seat, flashing a wide grin as he glances back. “Now that’s what I call fame.”
He pushes a few damp ginger strands off his forehead, still amused.
“Thanks for the rescue,” I say, though I don’t share his enthusiasm. “Can you take us to Hickory Road?” I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and wipe the melting snow off my face.
“No sweat, buddy,” Fred says, his grin widening. “Funny thing—I was already at SCPD working on a piece about a case Chief Tall’s handling. I’m heading to my car, and suddenly there’s this swarm of journalists out front. Figured I’d check it out. Turns out, they’re all camped out for my pal Newty!”
He chuckles to himself, clearly entertained.
I slump lower in the seat and mutter, “Yeah.”
Beside me, Xavier hasn’t said a word. His silence feels heavier by the second. My stomach knots, tension crawling up my spine. I want to ask what he’s thinking, but I’m not sure I want the answer. I exhale slowly, trying to steady myself, but my pulse is still stuck in my throat.
Fred’s eyes catch mine in the rearview, his grin turning sly. “Aren’t you gonna introduce us?” he teases.
“Oh—right. Sorry.” I gesture between them, suddenly aware of how awkward this feels. “Xavier, this is Fred Collins. We went to high school together. Fred, this is Xavier Ormond…” I pause, hesitating over what to call him. “My partner at the agency. I mentioned him yesterday.”
Fred stops at a red light and twists in his seat to offer Xavier a handshake. “Nice to meet you.”
Xavier doesn’t respond right away. For a moment, it’s like he didn’t hear him. His face gives nothing away, but I know that look—he’s running calculations in his head, probably a dozen at once.
“Xavier,” I murmur, nudging his arm.
He blinks, as if snapping out of it, then finally shakes Fred’s hand—though the tension in his grip makes it clear he’s annoyed.
Fred, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice and turns back to the wheel.
“Sorry we had to meet like this,” he says, shooting a quick glance at us in the rearview. “Journalists can be scavengers sometimes.”
“You’re one of them,” Xavier says, his voice edged with accusation.
“Well, yeah,” Fred admits with a short chuckle, eyes flicking between the road and the mirror as the car weaves through traffic.
“But I’m a political journalist, not a gossip hound, Mr. Ormond.
Honestly, I don’t know much about you—just that you’re some famous detective and Newty’s…
very close friend.” He pauses for effect, grin tugging wider.
“And I only learned that from The Weekend Herald over breakfast today.”
There’s a flicker of amusement in his gaze, like he’s quietly calling me out for keeping it to myself.
Heat rushes to my face, and I feel Xavier turn his head toward me. I don’t look at him, keeping my gaze fixed on the side of Fred’s head.
“It’s just tabloid garbage, Fred,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “None of it’s true.”
“Right,” Fred says, his smile lingering just long enough to show he doesn’t fully buy it. “The Herald is mostly a joke. Over at The Chronicle, we wouldn’t even wipe our shoes on it.”
“But you still read it,” Xavier says dryly, a hint of disgust crossing his face.
“And so do you,” I mutter under my breath. “Religiously.”
“Purely for work,” Xavier shoots back, brushing off my jab with a faint scowl.
Fred chuckles, clearly entertained by our back-and-forth.
“I read it for work too—gotta keep tabs on the competition,” he says, glancing at me in the rearview.
“Wild that one article’s got the press in such a frenzy.
Probably has the readers stirred up too.
If I were you guys, I’d lay low for a while. ”
“We’ll try,” I say, mostly to fill the silence. Xavier’s gaze lingers on me, but I keep my eyes forward. Easier to ignore it than deal with whatever he’s trying to read off me.
The thought of being alone with him at the apartment, with all this tension hanging between us, makes my stomach twist. I can’t picture telling Xavier that the whole country now thinks we’re sleeping together because, A—I’ll turn red like the hopelessly lovesick idiot I am, and B—he’ll realize I hid the paper from him, which only makes me look like a child. Neither is an option.
Luckily, looks like we won’t be alone after all. As we turn onto Hickory Road, a group of journalists comes into view, crowding the front of our building.
“Damn it,” I mutter, though a flicker of relief sneaks in. I can put off the inevitable conversation a little longer.
“This your place?” Fred asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Keep driving.”
Fred nods, unfazed. “I know where you can lay low for a couple hours,” he says, casual, like this is just another Tuesday for him. “Want me to take you?”
Xavier stays silent, which I take as agreement. “Yes, thank you,” I say.
As Fred drives, my thoughts drift to Mr. and Mrs. Waverly, our elderly neighbors on the ground floor. The idea of them stuck in the apartment while that mob camps outside makes my chest tighten. I just hope they don’t get ambushed with awkward questions about Xavier and me.
“I wish they’d leave already,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
Fred chuckles, a little ironic. “You can hope. But journalists are persistent little bastards—it comes with the job.”
I don’t answer, just turn to look out the window as the city blurs past. What if they don’t leave? Should we book a hotel for a few nights? Leave the city for a couple of days?
For a moment, I even consider taking Xavier to my sister Monica’s—she’s got a spare room, and we could crash there if it comes to that.
But then it hits me. Monica’s going to hear about the article soon enough, and trying to convince her that Xavier and I are just work partners will be its own nightmare. She’s been teasing me about him ever since he saved me from the Carver.
A few minutes later, Fred pulls up in front of a tall glass building on Horton Road. It takes me a second to place it—I recognize it from last night, across from the bar where Fred and I were drinking.
Xavier and I step out, the cold air biting at our faces, and follow Fred up a short flight of stairs through the glass doors into a bright, open lobby.
“Welcome to The Chronicle,” the receptionist greets us, her smile so fake she could be a robot for all I know.
Before I can respond, Xavier’s hand clamps around my elbow, spinning me toward him. His eyes blaze as he hisses, “He’s brought us to his newspaper.”
Fred catches it instantly and answers before I can. “Relax, guys. No one here’s going to bother you. We’re not a tabloid.”