CHAPTER 4. THE UNCLE
“Where are we going?” I ask, catching up with Xavier in the hallway. “Pretty sure the journalists are still camped outside our place.”
“We’ve got a case to investigate,” he says, his tone clipped. “Need to talk to some witnesses.”
“Didn’t the report already have their statements?” I frown, distracted as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance at the screen—Monica’s calling.
“Not for the Bridge case,” Xavier says, his expression shifting, thoughtful now. “For the Rishetor case.”
I hit decline and slip my phone back into my pocket. “Rishetor? Didn’t Willand say—”
“Willand doesn’t know about this,” Xavier cuts in. “And he won’t. At least, not yet.”
He waves the folder in front of my face—and that’s when I notice he’s holding two.
“You swiped the Rishetor files?” I ask, caught somewhere between impressed and amused. A grin tugs at my lips—it’s hard not to appreciate how smoothly he pulled it off. Honestly, if this detective thing ever falls apart, Xavier could moonlight as a magician. Or a thief.
“Yeah, right before we left,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching up.
I shrug. “Well, let’s go, then. With any luck, the journalists will be gone from Hickory Road by the time we get back.”
***
When we step outside, the snow has mostly stopped, just a few stray flakes drifting through the air. But the sky is still heavy with steel-gray clouds, hanging low, threatening to dump more at any second.
My phone buzzes again—Monica. I ignore it. She can be annoyingly persistent sometimes.
Xavier’s gaze flicks to my phone as I slip it back into my pocket.
“Sister,” I say with a shrug.
He doesn’t say anything, feigning disinterest like always.
We get a taxi, and soon we’re cruising down the misty highway toward Hilton, where the Rishetor Research Center is located.
I grab the folder from Xavier, set it on my lap, and start flipping through the documents. Meanwhile, Xavier leans back, arms crossed, eyes closed—completely at ease.
“Find the toxicology report,” he says.
“You still think he was poisoned?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“In a way,” he says. “‘Suffocated’ is probably the better word—he didn’t die from poison but from lack of oxygen. The report should confirm it.”
“Xavier, Wakefield was practically frozen solid. You saw him in the morgue.”
“That’s exactly what doesn’t make sense,” Xavier replies, still not bothering to open his eyes, like he’s meditating.
“The guy was a cryogenics specialist at Rishetor,” I mutter, skimming the papers. “Dying from exposure to cryogenic fluid wouldn’t be much of a leap.” A dull ache pulses behind my temples—stress, hangover, or both. I wince and rub my forehead.
“It’s stranger than you think,” Xavier says, his voice low against the hum of the car.
“How?” I ask, frowning.
He opens his eyes and pauses, like he’s savoring the moment before the reveal, then dives in.
“Small amounts of cryogenic liquid on skin don’t cause severe frostbite—the thermal conductivity is too low.
We saw the body four hours after it was found, and it was still, as you put it, ‘frozen solid.’ Wakefield had been dead for at least a day by Monday.
Even if he’d decided to work through the weekend—which I doubt, considering he never canceled his date—”
“What date? How did you—” I cut in, staring at him, completely thrown.
“—that means on Sunday, he supposedly chose to off himself by diving into a vat of liquid nitrogen,” Xavier continues, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Shame we weren’t at Rishetor on the 28th.
I wanted to corner those clowns who nearly convinced Willand to call it a workplace accident.
As for the suffocation—no doubt about it.
The body reeked of gasoline. But go ahead, prove me wrong. ”
I sift through the papers until I find the toxicology results, my brow furrowing as I nod.
“Yeah, you’re right. Cause of death was asphyxiation. But where the hell would Wakefield have breathed in gasoline vapors?”
“Now that’s the million-dollar question,” Xavier says, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “And here’s the real kicker—how did he end up frozen after he suffocated?”
Before I can respond, the taxi driver lets out a string of curses. The car skids, fishtailing, and I lurch sideways, slamming into Xavier. He grabs my elbow to steady me—because, of course, he’s unfazed, built like a damn statue—just as the car jerks to a stop.
“What the—” the driver starts, but a sharp knock on his window cuts him off. He throws the door open and steps out, slamming it behind him.
“What’s going on?” I ask, frowning as I reach for the door handle—but I pause when the door on Xavier’s side swings open.
A stocky, dark-haired man in his forties, dressed in a sleek black suit, leans into the cab.
“Mr. Doherty, if you’d please step out of the vehicle,” he says, polite but firm, looking past Xavier straight at me.
Something feels off, and I tense. Xavier glances at me, finally letting go of my elbow—there’s a touch of reluctance in the way he does it—his expression twisting into a faint grimace.
“Ernest,” he mutters under his breath.
Of course.
We step out of the taxi, and the man gestures for us to follow him past our cab driver, who looks distinctly annoyed, toward another figure waiting nearby.
Standing against the snowy backdrop is Ernest Ormond—Xavier’s uncle, whom I’ve only seen four times since I met Xavier.
Ernest looks like he stepped straight out of a luxury magazine: his tailored coat perfectly cut, his Italian leather shoes polished to a mirror shine, a cashmere scarf perfectly knotted at his collar, a sleek watch catching the light on his wrist. Everything about him radiates money—even his demeanor has the cool detachment of a billionaire.
Despite being Xavier’s uncle, he’s younger than you’d expect—maybe a little over forty—but he carries himself with the authority of someone twice his age.
Behind him, a sleek, midnight-black Aston Martin shines like it just rolled out of a showroom, sealing the image.
“You’ve really outdone yourself this time, Uncle,” Xavier drawls. “What’s next, a helicopter? Planning to parachute in for the full effect?”
“I’ll have you know we cleared two miles of Ellington Road just for this little tête-à-tête,” Ernest replies, his smile not reaching his eyes.
“Don’t bother next time. I’m not a fan of grand gestures,” Xavier says flatly. “And we’ve got nothing to talk about.”
“I assure you, all this isn’t for your benefit,” Ernest replies smoothly, his razor-sharp gaze shifting to me. He nods once. “It’s for Mr. Doherty’s.”
“Is that so?” Xavier’s eyes narrow, his tone darkening.
“Indeed. Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Ernest says, completely unbothered. “I’d like a word with him. In private.”
“Why?” Xavier steps closer to me, refusing to move.
It’s always the same with these two—locking horns, neither willing to give an inch.
Usually, Ernest shows up under some vague pretense, supposedly to talk to Xavier, but really just to lecture him.
Then they argue, and I get stuck watching their family drama unfold.
They normally leave me out of it, so the fact that Ernest actually wants to talk to me this time—that’s new.
“I’d rather not get into the details,” Ernest says, his gaze shifting back to me. “Mr. Doherty?”
“Whatever it is, Ernest,” I reply, crossing my arms, “you can say it in front of Xavier.”
“I’d prefer not to,” Ernest says evenly. His eyes stay on me, unflinching. “And trust me, you wouldn’t want me to either if you knew what this was about.”
Xavier lets out a sharp exhale, his irritation breaking through. “Then why didn’t you catch him alone?” he snaps, sarcasm threading his voice with just a trace of anger beneath it. “Wouldn’t that be more your usual style?”
“That’s exactly the problem,” Ernest sighs, almost weary. “You haven’t left his side all day.”
“Stop stalking us,” Xavier hisses, stepping in closer.
If I didn’t know him, I’d think he was about to punch Ernest—but Xavier’s not that reckless.
And Ernest, being the rich and powerful bastard he is, probably has ten bodyguards stashed in that car, ready to twist Xavier’s arms behind his back before he even gets the chance.
“I’m looking out for you.”
“I never asked you to.”
“It’s not your call. Our family has enemies, and you’re giving them even more reasons to—”
“No,” Xavier cuts him off. “You have enemies. You and your company.”
“Which means you do too. Like it or not, you’re my family, and that makes you a target.”
Xavier snorts. “Oh, please. This isn’t about me being in danger. You just can’t help poking around in my business—like the nosy little crow you are.”
That one hits Ernest right in the ego. His face twists with anger as he snaps, “Well, if I’m a nosy crow, then you’re a sulky teenager, pining after something he’ll never—”
“Enough!” I cut in, stepping between them. The tension crackles in the air, but I’m not letting this go any further. I glance at Ernest, but he doesn’t so much as blink, his gaze fixed on Xavier like it’s burning a hole through him. “If you’ve got something to say, Ernest, say it. Now.”
There’s silence as Ernest turns to look at me, like he’s willing me to read his mind. When that, unsurprisingly, doesn’t work, he exhales sharply.
“Maybe another time.”
“Fantastic,” Xavier says, taking hold of my elbow and steering me toward the taxi. “Preferably never.”
“I wouldn’t have to go this far if you didn’t make a habit of ignoring problems,” Ernest says, his voice cold as he addresses Xavier’s back.
“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Xavier replies, throwing him a sharp look over his shoulder.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten everything too?” Ernest shoots back.
I glance at Xavier, trying to piece together whatever cryptic mess this is, but his expression gives nothing away. Whatever’s going on, he’s not planning to explain it.
Without another word, they each climb into their cars, leaving me no choice but to follow Xavier back into the taxi.
A moment later, the driver returns—silent, visibly rattled—and we’re back on the highway.
“What was that about?” I ask, watching Xavier as he stares out the window, lost in thought.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, waving the question away like it’s nothing.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
1 unread message from my sister.
Monica: Saw the article. Anything you want to tell me?
“Newt.”
“Mhm? What?” I look up and meet Xavier’s eyes.
“When we get home, remind me to sweep for bugs,” he says.
“Ernest up to his old tricks?” I ask, brow furrowing.
“He never stopped,” Xavier mutters, exhaling sharply. “Why can’t he just leave us alone?”
“I think he’s worried about you,” I say with a shrug.
“More like he just enjoys getting under my skin.”
“Maybe,” I mutter, rubbing my still-throbbing temples. “Feels like the whole world wants a piece of us today. Thank God for Fred, at least—he saved us from those journalists.”
“Don’t mention that idiot,” Xavier grumbles.
“I still don’t get why you dislike him so much.”
“He’s a journalist. They’re…slippery.”
“You can’t lump them all together, Xavier. Imagine if people judged all detectives based on me or you.”
“You’re right. They’d be setting the bar way too high.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“Fred might be blunt, but he’s kind. And for what it’s worth, he likes you.”
“Well, I don’t like him. He talks too much. And calls you Newty.”
I grin despite myself. “That’s why you don’t like him? Because he calls me Newty?”
“A little too cozy for a former classmate,” Xavier says, deadpan.
“Everyone called me that in high school.”
“Did they?” Xavier asks, watching me closely.
I meet his gaze, trying to stay composed, though it’s not easy under those piercing blue eyes.
For a few seconds, neither of us blinks, locked in some unspoken standoff—until my phone vibrates again.
I glance at the screen. This time, it’s Ernest.
Ernest Ormond: “Don’t tell him I’m texting you. We need to talk. Ernest Ormond.”
I quickly type back: “What’s this about?” and hit send—just as Xavier speaks.
“Now he’s texting you?”
I look up to find Xavier glaring at my phone, his expression dark.
“Yes,” I say simply. No point in hiding it.
“Don’t answer.”
“I just want to know what he wants.”
“I know what he wants.”
“Well?” I prompt, raising an eyebrow.
“The same as everyone else,” Xavier says, straightening up. “Details about today’s article. Just ignore him.”
“Fine,” I nod, slipping my phone back into my pocket.
The rest of the ride to the Rishetor Center passes in silence. Xavier sits with his eyes closed, while I try to focus on the Rishetor case files. But no matter how hard I try, lines from The Weekend Herald keep slipping into my head, pulling my focus away.
I glance up from the folder, my eyes landing on Xavier.
His sharp features feel almost unreal—like he belongs in a painting, not crammed into the back of a taxi with me.
My chest tightens as I think about how lucky I am to have met him—this brilliant, impossible man who saved my life and upended everything I thought I knew about myself.
Even now, just sitting next to him, my breath catches. I force myself to look away, exhaling slowly, trying to think about anything else.
Of course, I’m in love with Xavier. I’ve suspected that for a while.
He’s a study in contrasts—brilliant, sharp, untouchable, but also steady and loyal in a way most people never see. That side, the one hidden under all the sarcasm and wit, is the part he only shows me. And I love both.
I push the thought away like I always do, knowing that if I ever fully gave in—if I let myself love Xavier the way I want to, even for a second—it would ruin everything.
Our friendship. The balance we’ve built.
And me, most of all. Because I wouldn’t be able to hide it from him or go back to the way things were.
“I can hear you thinking,” Xavier says suddenly.
“What? Oh. Sorry,” I blurt, snapping back to reality. My face heats up as I glance at him, caught off guard.
He turns to the window. “We’re here.”
I glance outside. Up ahead, tall gates mark the entrance, an iron sign overhead reading Rishetor Research Center. A security booth sits just before the gates, stationed to check anyone coming through.
The taxi slows, then rolls to a stop.