CHAPTER 7. TOUCH #2
Xavier appears beside me almost instantly (of course he does, with those long legs), and whispers:
“Getting out’s gonna be tricky. Especially if we wake the guards.”
“Shut up,” I hiss, already creeped out. “Where to now?”
“Down. The morgue’s in the basement.”
We move carefully down the dark staircase, Xavier in front, his whole body tense. We’ve both got our phone flashlights on, but the beam barely cuts through the dark.
Every time we reach a landing, Xavier stops, waiting. I can tell he’s straining to catch every sound in the silence. Then we keep going, one flight at a time.
To my surprise, we reach the basement without a hitch. We push through a metal door and step into a narrow hallway. The darkness is thick here, pressing in from all sides, but the flashlights help a little.
Xavier stops at one of the doors with a small glass window and peers inside.
“Should be it,” he whispers as we step through.
A blast of cold air hits us. Yeah, this is definitely the morgue. I exhale, relieved—not just that we’re in the right place, but that the whole thing went pretty smoothly. Maybe we’ll be just as lucky getting out.
This room is brighter—three rectangular windows high on the opposite wall let in just enough streetlight to cast long, blue-tinted shadows across the space.
Xavier moves toward the wall of pull-out freezer chambers. I follow, scanning the name tags in the little glass panes. The middle chamber in the third row catches my eye.
The tag reads: Henry Lloyd Wakefield.
“Got it,” I whisper.
Xavier steps over, and together, we pull out the chamber.
There he is. The man we last saw in another morgue, just a week ago. Only this time, he’s not frozen solid.
“Newt?” Xavier says, impatience creeping into his voice. “Work your magic.”
It’s not magic. I’m not a doctor or anything, but I did my time as a CSI tech after my bachelor’s—I know my way around a corpse. And unlike Xavier, dead bodies don’t make me squeamish.
I glance around, spot a box of gloves, and pull on a pair.
“What are we looking for?” I ask.
“Anything,” Xavier murmurs. “Anything besides the obvious.”
I get to work, running my hands over cold skin, scanning for anything that doesn’t line up. The dim light isn’t doing me any favors, but I keep quiet about it. The last thing we need is a guard checking in.
“Can you give me the autopsy report?” I say.
Xavier pulls a worn folder from his pocket, flips it open, and holds it out. I glance between the report and the body, cross-checking details.
Fifteen minutes pass. Xavier shifts beside me, restless.
“There’s gotta be something else,” he mutters. “There has to be, Newt.”
“Give me a sec, Xavier.”
“Any chance you could pick up the pace?”
I ignore him. Another few minutes go by in silence. Then, finally, I straighten up, peel off one glove, and roll my shoulders.
“I think I found something.” I point to the dark bruising and swelling on one of Henry’s feet. “See that?”
Xavier exhales. “Yeah, it’s arthritis. Says so in the report.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Henry Wakefield had DCS.”
Xavier frowns. “English, please?”
“Decompression sickness. The bends.”
“The bends? Like what divers get?”
“Yep.”
He stares at me. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Xavier rakes a hand through his hair, messing it up.
I can see the frustration tightening his jaw, the way his eyes narrow like he’s sifting through a pile of junk, searching for the one piece that fits.
“Newt, the complications take years to develop, even in divers. You’re absolutely certain? ”
“Yes, Xavier. Arthritis usually affects both sides. Henry only has swelling in one leg. And there’s a rash on his shoulders and upper abdomen.
His records show he’d been complaining about muscle and joint pain, but the doctors chalked it up to arthritis.
Same with the shortness of breath, the heart issues. But it all adds up.”
Xavier stares down at the body, then exhales sharply. “So Henry Wakefield had decompression sickness. And no one noticed.”
I nod.
His brows pull together. “So what—he was sneaking off to go diving in his free time?”
I shrug. “Or maybe he was secretly an astronaut. DCS might not have killed him outright, but it definitely could’ve played a role. I need time to think it through, go over the report and case file again before I start forming theories.”
Xavier just looks at me for a second. Then, like something short-circuits in his brain, his face lights up. “You’re brilliant,” he blurts—and pulls me into a quick, tight hug.
I freeze, heart hammering. But before I can even react, he lets go, slams the chamber shut, stuffs the folder into his coat, and strides toward the exit like he’s on a mission.
“Xavier?” I toss the gloves in the bin and jog after him. “You’ve got a theory?”
“I might be onto something,” he says, his voice buzzing with energy. “But I need to check something first.”
“Please tell me you don’t mean now,” I mutter as we slip out of the morgue.
“God, no, Newt.” He actually laughs. “We’re going home. You’ve more than earned it.”
I snort, amused. We step into the pitch-black hallway, and despite the beams of our flashlights, I stumble—my hand shooting out to grab Xavier’s elbow, catching my balance just in time.
He stiffens for a split second, then asks, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I nod, letting go. “Sorry.”
Xavier nods back. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
But as we reach the basement landing, a door slams somewhere upstairs—followed by voices and the heavy thud of boots. Xavier and I lock eyes.
Before I can say anything, he grabs my shoulders and shoves me into the narrow gap beneath the stairs, pressing me back against the cold wall.
“I think it came from below,” a man’s voice echoes.
The footsteps grow louder. Closer. The guards are just one floor above us now, their voices bouncing down the stairwell.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Xavier presses in tighter, keeping me pinned. His cheek brushes my temple. His breath is warm against my neck. My pulse hammers in my ears. He’s solid against me, one of his legs barely wedged between mine like we’ve been caught mid-makeout or something.
And yeah, this is absolutely not the time for my brain to be clocking the scent of him, the heat of his breath, or the way my body fits perfectly against his.
But it does. And it sends a very inconvenient jolt of arousal straight through me.
My cock stirs, completely confused by what’s happening, and I pray to God Xavier doesn’t notice.
I freeze, brain blank, just begging for all of this to be over—and of course, that’s when Xavier’s thigh shifts the tiniest bit, brushing against me.
And oh, God.
I go hard. Instantly. The kind of hard that hasn’t happened since high school. My whole body tenses, face burning with humiliation, but I don’t dare move or say a word, because yeah—I don’t want to die or go to jail.
Xavier tenses too. Then leans back, just an inch. Just enough to give me space. Which somehow makes it worse, because now I’m almost positive he felt it.
A door slams somewhere above us, and the stairwell falls silent.
We stay frozen for a few more seconds, barely breathing. Time stretches. Nothing. No voices. No footsteps. The guards are gone.
Xavier finally steps back, exhaling a heavy sigh. There’s a beat of awkward silence between us, and I hope to God he’ll just pretend none of this happened. He doesn’t say a word.
So I do. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
He nods. We creep up the stairs like ghosts, slipping past the first floor landing. But just as we reach the second floor, a door slams below again.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
There’s nowhere to hide. We’re exposed, stuck in the open, right in the middle of the staircase.
“I swear I heard steps, Earl,” one of the guards says.
“They must be here somewhere,” the other replies.
That’s when Xavier hisses into my ear, “Run.”
We bolt. Take the stairs two at a time, our footsteps pounding so loud it feels like they’re echoing inside my skull. We’re a couple of flights ahead before the guards even realize what’s happening.
“They’re upstairs!” one of them shouts.
My breath catches in my throat, heart hammering as we tear up the stairwell. Xavier stays a few steps ahead, glancing back constantly to make sure I’m still with him. We hit the fifth floor in under a minute—and my stomach flips when I remember what’s ahead.
Two ladders. One up to the roof. One down from it.
Xavier scrambles up the rope ladder first and slams his palm into the hatch. It doesn’t budge.
“Locked?” I pant, peering over the railing. Flashlight beams flicker below, sweeping up the stairwell. “Xavier?”
He doesn’t answer. Just hits the hatch again—
BANG!
It creaks open with a groan, letting in a blast of freezing air.
“Newt!” he yells. “Let’s go!”
I grab the rope and climb. We haul ourselves onto the roof, moonlight spilling across the concrete. Xavier slams the hatch shut behind us. There’s no lock. And no time to try barricading it.
Xavier doesn’t hesitate. He leaps onto the parapet, back to the edge, and steps off without so much as a glance.
My heart stops. I rush to the edge where he disappeared and spot his dark hair a few rungs down.
I let out a breath. “Jesus, Xavier.”
“You coming?” he calls up, glancing at me from the ladder.
“Yeah,” I mutter, snapping out of it. I step onto the parapet. The ladder doesn’t look like it’ll hold much more weight, but there’s no time to hesitate. I grip the freezing metal and start climbing down.
Below me, Xavier suddenly lets out a laugh. Then another—wheezing now between fits.
“What?” I whisper harshly. “What’s so funny?”
He tries to hold it in but fails. “It’s three a.m.…we broke into a crematorium…and now we’re running from security guards with criminal records…”
“Shut up, Xavier,” I hiss. “We’re gonna get caught.”