CHAPTER 7. TOUCH
“Newt.”
It’s dark, and I wake with a jolt, something cool brushing my cheek.
“Mhm?” I mumble, blinking. “Xavier?”
“Yes,” he says—and I can feel him close, like he’s sitting right beside me on the bed. “It’s time to go.”
I push up on one elbow, suddenly wide awake. He’s a shadow in the dark, barely moving.
“Where?” I ask, still foggy with sleep.
“To the crematorium.”
I frown. “Already?”
“Yeah.”
I sit up fully. The headache’s mostly gone now—just a dull throb lingering at the back of my skull.
“What time is it?”
“Two-twenty. I already called a cab.”
“Seriously? Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”
“I tried. You were out cold.”
“I don’t remember that at all.” I throw off the covers, and as Xavier stands, I swing my feet to the floor.
“You told me to fuck off,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “You’re kind of angry in your sleep.”
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I don’t remember any of it.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “Now get dressed.” Something soft lands in my lap.
I squint at the bundle in the dim light. “What’s this?”
“I brought your clothes,” he says, already turning to leave and give me privacy.
“Xavier,” I call after him, and he pauses in the doorway. I don’t even know why I stopped him—I just don’t want him to leave yet. “Are you okay?” I ask, immediately regretting how awkward it sounds.
“Of course,” he says, a little too easily. Which only makes me doubt it more. “I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.”
“Okay,” I say, watching his back as he walks out.
I switch on the bedside lamp and look down at the striped sweater and jeans in my lap. My clothes. He must’ve gone and picked them out for me. Maybe I’m reading too much into it—but still. That’s…kind of sweet.
I dress quickly, splash cold water on my face in the bathroom, fish my belt out of the laundry pile, and head to the kitchen.
Xavier’s already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, his fingers tapping quietly. A rolled-up case file sticks out of his coat pocket.
“Is that the Rishetor case?” I ask, glancing at it.
He gives a small nod. The bruise on his cheek looks worse now—darker, more spread out.
“Ready?” he asks, meeting my eyes.
“Yeah,” I say, blinking out of whatever thought I’d just slipped into. “Though I’d kill for a coffee…”
Xavier smirks. “No time. The driver’s already here. And if you drink coffee now, you won’t sleep later—so let’s go.”
“My life is a prison,” I sigh, deadpan.
“I’ll make you some decaf when we’re back,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching.
I glance over, caught off guard. Our eyes meet.
“What?” I frown. Then, before I can stop myself, I say, “No, you won’t.”
“If you say so,” Xavier huffs, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance, like I’m being difficult. “Come on. Let’s move.”
***
A sleek black cab idles at the curb. We slide into the back, pulling the doors shut behind us. The car pulls away, picking up speed as we leave the narrow street and head for the open highway.
I lean my head against the cool window, fighting off drowsiness as the city lights smear into streaks.
My mind drifts—mostly to Xavier, and whether he actually meant that thing about coffee, or if it was just something to say.
Either way, there’s this quiet warmth in my chest, a strange kind of comfort, even though it’s almost two-thirty in the morning and we’re on our way to a crematorium.
“You’re smiling,” Xavier says, breaking the cab’s muffled silence.
“Huh?” I glance over at him.
“What are you smiling about?”
I shrug. “Just in a good mood, that’s all.”
He goes quiet again, unreadable. We ride like that for a while—me replaying the chaos of the past twenty-four hours, him frowning at the seat in front of him, possibly doing the same.
“Tell me that joke,” I say, finally breaking the silence.
“Mm?”
“Earlier, at Rishetor’s. You said I told you a joke when I was drunk. Something about sex and math.”
Xavier lifts an eyebrow. “You’re only just now catching that? Maybe you do have a concussion.”
I ignore the jab. “Tell me.”
“No.”
“So you made it up,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “I never told you anything like that.”
“You did.” A flicker of a smirk pulls at his mouth.
“Then tell me.”
“No. Too dirty for me.”
I scoff. “You’re just trying to get me curious.”
Xavier shrugs. “Are you into dirty jokes?”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, forget it.”
We fall quiet again, both watching the blur of streetlights outside. Then Xavier says, almost offhand, “What happened between you two?”
I blink. “Come again?”
“You and Fairfax.” He doesn’t look at me. “Back in high school. Was there something?”
I hesitate, not sure if he’s prying into my love life or circling back to the case in some way. He gives me nothing, just waits.
“We dated for a little while,” I say at last, my cheeks warming.
“For a little while?” Xavier repeats, completely neutral, like he’s talking about the weather.
“Yes,” I say. “We were good friends, but once we started dating, it got awkward. Then it just…fizzled out.”
“Too bad,” Xavier says, deadpan.
I study his face, trying to tell if that’s sarcasm. Then, more lightly, I add, “Well, it was doomed from the start, like every high school crush. Still—kind of strange running into both her and Fred within two days.”
“Statistical probability,” Xavier says, his eyes still fixed on the window.
It annoys me that I can’t get him to even look at me.
“Not like we ever run into your old classmates,” I smirk. “Bet you were Mr. Popular back then.”
Xavier’s expression darkens. “Actually, it was the opposite. I didn’t really have friends.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Come on. The girls must’ve been all over you.”
“Nope. I was scrawny back then. And this face?” He gestures vaguely. “Only got me attention from bullies. Everyone called me queer.”
Something twists in my stomach at the bitter edge in his voice. And for a split second, I wonder—was it just a word they threw at him, or is he actually gay?
But before I can sit with the thought, Xavier goes on.
“Got my ass kicked daily in middle school. So no, definitely not Mr. Popular.”
My throat goes dry. I want to hug him, but I know he wouldn’t take pity well, so all I manage is, “Shit. Xavier, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His mouth curves faintly, but his eyes stay distant. “It taught me something.”
“What’s that?” My voice comes out quiet, my chest pulled tight.
“Pretty boys need muscle,” Xavier says, finally meeting my gaze.
A shaky laugh slips out of me. “Well, karma’s come around, right?
First of all, you’re ridiculously hot now.
” My face heats, but I hold his gaze. He rolls his eyes, though I swear he’s blushing even in the dim light of the car.
“Second of all, who cares if you didn’t have friends in high school?
You’ve got me. And let’s be real—I’m the best.”
I grin, and for a moment, Xavier actually smiles. It’s a real smile, one that reaches his eyes. But then it fades, leaving only the ghost of it behind as he says, “You really are.”
My heart pounds in my throat. I’m definitely reading too much into it, but I can’t help myself. He holds my gaze a second longer, then turns back to the window, breaking the spell—looking lighter somehow, but still a little sad.
I turn to my own window, still burning a little. A few seconds pass, and then I feel it—something cool brushing the back of my hand.
Fingers. Xavier’s fingers—just barely resting against mine.
I don’t move, don’t even breathe, just let him hold my hand. The gesture is so tender, my heart aches. I want to look at him—at our hands—but I don’t, like I’m afraid of startling a wild animal.
We sit like that, not speaking, our hands resting there between us. Time slips by, and I feel stupidly happy, until the cab jerks to a stop.
“We’re here,” the driver says, half-turning.
Xavier pulls his hand back and straightens. “Thanks. Can you wait here for us? I’ll pay extra for the time.”
The driver agrees, and while he and Xavier discuss the details, I get out of the car.
Cold air hits me the second I step outside. I shove my hands into my pockets, shivering against the wind.
As soon as Xavier steps out, he nods ahead. “We’ve got to walk a bit. The crematorium’s a block away. Didn’t want to draw attention.”
I nod, and we head down the empty street, keeping our heads low. A few minutes later, we reach another intersection.
“There,” Xavier says, pointing.
A five-story building sits on the corner, no fence—just a wide, open lot around it.
“We need to go around back. There are cameras at the front.”
“When did you—?” I start, but Xavier cuts me off with a sharp gesture.
“Later.”
Sticking to the shadows, we circle the building and stop behind a leafless bush, out of reach of the streetlights. It’s pitch dark here, the air heavy with the smell of damp concrete.
For about half a minute, Xavier paces along the stone wall, craning his neck to peer into the gloom. Then, with a quiet but triumphant “Mm,” he waves me over.
I step closer—and immediately regret it. My stomach drops. A flimsy steel ladder hangs from the roof, barely secured to the wall.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I whisper.
“There’s a hatch on the roof,” Xavier says just as quietly. “It’s open tonight.”
“I hate you,” I say flatly. Xavier smirks, but a second later, he’s already climbing.
Several grueling minutes later, we haul ourselves onto the roof, where thick pipes and tangled wires sprawl across the brick like a nest of black snakes. A little way off, a small square hatch sits embedded in the floor.
Xavier opens it. A rope ladder dangles into a pitch-black void.
God, no.
“Want to go first?” Xavier asks, that insufferable smirk creeping into his voice.
I glare at him but swing my legs through the opening, grabbing the rope. No way am I letting him think I’m scared. The ladder sways. I take one step, then another, breath tight as I descend into the dark. It takes maybe ten seconds to hit the landing below.