CHAPTER 6. COMPANY #2
“Yeah.” I nod, feeling oddly awkward. It’s strange, having Monica here, in the apartment I share with Xavier. These two parts of my life have never really overlapped before.
She gets up and starts wandering, her gaze drifting over the room. It lands on Xavier’s robe belt tossed across the couch, then on one of his shirts hanging off a chair. Finally, her eyes stop on a pair of his socks draped over the armrest.
She grins. “No mistaking guys live here, that’s for sure.”
I chuckle. “Yeah. I try to keep it clean, but Xavier’s a lost cause.”
She smirks, nodding, then strolls into the kitchen. I follow. She looks around, her gaze shifting toward the door at the end of the hallway. “Is that your room?”
“No, that’s Xavier’s. Mine’s upstairs.”
Our eyes meet for half a second, but it’s enough—I catch the flicker of recognition there, the unspoken question she doesn’t ask. She remembers that’s exactly where I woke up.
Heat creeps up my neck, and I glance away quickly, pretending to check if the kettle’s still hot. I can feel Monica watching me.
“Want to tell me anything?” she asks, one eyebrow raised.
“Nope,” I say, avoiding her gaze, the coward I am.
She doesn’t let it go. She punches my shoulder, light and teasing. “Newt.”
“What?” I finally look at her, fully aware I must seem flustered—a schoolboy caught off guard.
“Are you and Xavier…” She trails off, letting the question hang.
I blink. “Hmm?” Playing dumb, as if that’s going to save me.
“I heard what his uncle said to you. And I read the article.”
“Monica,” I sigh. “Not you too. Please.”
She studies me for a beat, then exhales and raises her hands, giving in. “Okay, okay.”
Silence lingers until I clear my throat. “I’ll go get dressed,” I say. “Wait here.”
I don’t give her a chance to respond before turning on my heel and heading back through the living room, up the stairs, and into my bedroom.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I let out a slow breath, relieved to have escaped—for now.
“How are you feeling?”
I jolt, my pulse kicking up as my eyes adjust to the dim light spilling through the open curtains.
There’s someone on my bed. Xavier.
Right—Mrs. Waverly did say he was here…
“I’ve been better,” I mutter, suddenly aware of the dull throb in my skull. I’d been so distracted, I’d almost forgotten how bad I felt until he asked. “Why are you here?”
I almost say, Why are you here, in the dark, lying on my bed? but catch myself.
“As you might’ve noticed, the living room’s been taken over,” Xavier says, a hint of irritation in his voice. “Didn’t want to wake you, so I came in here.”
I nod and sit at the foot of the bed.
“Met my sister?”
“Mm.” Xavier grunts in affirmation. “She’s not much like you.”
I know he doesn’t mean it physically.
“Yeah. Just like your uncle isn’t much like you…”
Xavier stiffens. “Did he say something to you?” There’s tension under the calm now.
My heart skips. Is he worried Ernest thinks we’re sleeping together—like everyone else? I freeze, thankful the dim light hides my face. I’ve never been good at hiding my thoughts.
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my voice even. “He wants us to drop the Rishetor case.” I leave out the rest of the conversation on purpose.
“Of course he does.” Xavier smirks, a trace of relief slipping through as he shifts, propping himself up on the bed. “Wouldn’t be surprised if Rishetor’s some rich buddy of his and Ernest just doesn’t want us stirring the pot.”
“I actually asked that,” I say with a snort. “He gave me something ominous—said the guy’s too powerful to piss off.”
Xavier huffs a laugh. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
I chuckle. Silence settles between us, broken only by the sound of our breathing—until I catch a dark spot on Xavier’s cheek in the dim light. My stomach dips.
“Is that a bruise?”
“Yeah. The bastard hit me, remember?”
“Right,” I say, nodding, though the memory’s fuzzy now. “How did we even get home?”
Xavier frowns. “Newt, I think you might have a concussion.”
Do I actually have one—or is that genuine concern in his voice?
“If I did, I’d probably be dead by now,” I say. His frown deepens, so I add, “You’re not supposed to let someone sleep if they have a concussion.”
I feel him tense at that. I sigh. “Relax. No symptoms. I’m fine. Just needed to sleep off the hangover. Now, how’s your cheek?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Did you clean it?”
“No.”
“If the skin’s broken, you need to. Let me take a look.”
Xavier exhales, annoyed, but doesn’t argue—at least not until I reach for the bedside lamp. That’s when he catches my wrist…then just as quickly lets go.
“Don’t.”
I frown, heat creeping up my neck at the brief contact. “Why not?”
“There’s a hidden camera in here somewhere.”
“What? In my room?”
“Yeah. Thank Ernest.”
I let out a huff, irritation crawling under my skin. “To hell with Ernest. Let me see.”
Ignoring his grumbled protest, I switch on the lamp.
Xavier squints against the light, then tilts his head at me. “You look awful.”
“You’re not looking so great yourself,” I mutter, lifting his chin to get a better look at the bruise blooming on his left cheek. He stays surprisingly still, gaze fixed somewhere off to the side.
I run my fingers lightly over the spot, pressing just enough to check for swelling. “The skin’s not broken,” I say, glancing up at him. “It’ll probably look worse tomorrow, though. The journalists are going to speculate if you don’t cover it.”
Xavier doesn’t respond. He stays still, tense, like the whole thing makes him uncomfortable.
“Are you breathing, Xavier?” I ask, trying to pull his focus back.
He blinks, eyes snapping to mine. “Of course I’m breathing, Newt.”
I smirk. “Relax. I was joking.”
For a split second, there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—gone before I can be sure it meant anything. That’s when I realize I’m still holding his chin.
I let go, fast. My pulse spikes, and I scramble for something to say, anything to drown out the pounding in my ears.
“Who was that guy who attacked us?” I ask, too casually. “James Answorth.”
“No idea.”
“He said he was from The Weekend Herald, right?”
“Yeah, but that’s not true. I already checked. No one by that name works there.”
I frown. “How is that possible?”
“That man just doesn’t exist. And I checked another name too.” Xavier reaches across the bed, grabbing something from the nightstand. “Tammy Gardens.”
In the dim light, I notice a rolled-up newspaper in his hand and immediately recognize it as the issue of The Weekend Herald I’d stuffed under my mattress earlier. My stomach twists with embarrassment. I clear my throat.
“She doesn’t work there either?” I ask, trying to sound neutral.
“No. And the article was submitted anonymously,” Xavier says, gaze fixed on the paper. “Or that’s what their editor-in-chief claims.”
“And they just ran it?”
He shrugs. “It’s a tabloid. They’ll print anything that stirs drama.”
“Well, I guess fact-checking’s not really their thing,” I mutter.
Xavier’s eyes flick to mine. There’s something unreadable there. Then he looks away.
I let out a slow breath. “But…what does that actually mean?”
“Someone’s watching us,” he says. “Someone who wanted to cause a stir. Now the city’s buzzing, journalists are crawling all over us, and everyone’s suddenly interested in our lives. But this didn’t just happen. Someone lit the match. The rest are just chasing the fire.”
“But why would anyone do that?” I ask, frowning. “Are they trying to distract us?”
“Maybe,” Xavier says after a pause—though he doesn’t sound convinced.
“So that James Answorth…” I say, the pieces starting to click into place. “If he wasn’t really a journalist, then he was just there to provoke us—get a reaction, make it worse in the press.”
Xavier nods.
I flush, remembering what Answorth said—and how Xavier reacted. The guy made some crude comment about fucking me, and Xavier decked him for it. I shouldn’t like that as much as I do, but yeah. It does something to the butterflies already rioting in my stomach.
“Who would go this far?” I ask, still trying to wrap my head around it.
“No idea. But by tomorrow, our faces will be all over Shorewitch’s tabloids again.”
“Great,” I mutter.
Xavier studies me for a beat, then says calmly, “We need to solve the Rishetor case while we still can. Tonight, we’re breaking into the crematorium.”
“The crematorium,” I repeat flatly.
“Yeah. The one where they’re keeping Henry Wakefield.”
I blink at him. “Xavier, that’s illegal.”
“Don’t worry, Hilton Crematorium falls under Willand’s jurisdiction. Worst case, he bails us out. That is, if the guards don’t take us out first. I hear they only hire ex-cons. Supposedly reformed—but who knows.”
“Oh, great. And here I was hoping for a peaceful night of not dying.”
“Come on. I thought you liked a little danger.”
I snort. “Sure. Roller coasters, horror movies, spicy food—normal danger. Not ‘breaking into a crematorium guarded by ex-convicts’ danger. I’m still halfway hungover and possibly mildly concussed. Plus, I really want to sleep, Xavier.”
Xavier’s lips twitch into a faint smile as he watches me, eyes almost pleading. “Pretty please? I really can’t do this alone. I need your brain. You’re way better at the nerdy stuff than I am. Sleep for a couple of hours, and I’ll wake you later.”
The way he looks at me—smiling like that—makes my pulse stutter. Shit, I can’t even say no to him anymore.
I sigh, rolling my eyes. “Wow. Such generosity. You should get a medal.”
“I can get down on my knees and beg, if that sweetens the deal.”
Our eyes meet. My face heats up.
“What’s next, a promise ring?” I mutter, blushing furiously. “Okay, fine.”
“You’re the best,” Xavier says, grinning like he just cracked a case after weeks of dead ends. Then he pauses, like something just occurred to him. “Oh, and I forgot to tell you—your stupid fucking friend called while you were out. Fred Collins.” There’s a definite edge in his voice.
“What did he want?”
“No clue.”
“I’ll call him back tomorrow.”