CHAPTER 9. HINGE #2
“Okay,” I say, letting it go. My mind’s buzzing with questions, but I keep my mouth shut. I’m not going to push. Not right now.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Xavier mutters, catching my eye. “You’re pitying me. Don’t.”
“I’m not pitying you,” I blink, reaching for the coffee pot. “I’m sympathizing.”
“Same thing,” he mutters. Then, without warning: “I’m going to Fulton. Now.”
He gets up from his chair and walks toward the living room.
I hesitate. Is he planning to go alone?
Xavier glances back over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”
Our eyes meet.
“Yeah. Of course.”
He nods.
“Get dressed. I’ll call a cab.”
I leave my coffee untouched and duck into Xavier’s room to grab my stuff, then head to mine to dress.
His words loop in my head as I pull on a clean pair of jeans. I feel like an idiot for not realizing something was up. The visits from Ernest, the way Xavier’s been off lately—it should’ve clicked. But I was too wrapped up in my own feelings to see it.
I buckle my belt and stare at myself in the bedroom mirror. Monica’s voice echoes in my head—”Hold up, are you actually in love with him?”
Thank God I wasn’t too drunk last night. I could’ve done something stupid when he asked me to stay. Like kiss him. Or worse. His dad had just died—he needed a friend, and I almost ruined everything. Almost threw away our friendship. Our partnership.
This’ll pass. It has to. Or at least fade enough to let things go back to normal.
But when I come downstairs and see Xavier in the living room—shrugging on a black jacket over a pitch-black shirt so tight it looks like the buttons might give—I feel it again. That flip in my stomach.
The place is still a mess from last night. Plates, glasses, and bottles everywhere. The memories hit me like a punch. I swallow hard.
“Let’s go,” Xavier says, catching my eye.
I glance around. “We’re just leaving the living room like this?”
“Like what?” He frowns.
I nod toward the mess.
“We’ll clean later,” he says, grabbing Bridge’s file from the table on his way to the door. “Come on.”
***
For the first five minutes of our ride to Fulton, neither of us speaks—Xavier flips through Bridge’s case file, and I stare out the window, watching the city blur past, my thoughts looping back to last night again.
Eventually, the silence starts to grate. I glance at him.
“Ernest must be really worried about you,” I say, clearing my throat. “Showing up first thing in the morning? That’s…not really his style.”
“It’s about the cameras,” Xavier mutters, flipping a page. “Sauron has gone blind.” He smirks, dark.
I let out a quiet laugh. “Sauron? Didn’t have you pegged as a Lord of the Rings guy.”
“Why?” He arches a brow. “What do you think I read?”
I grin. “I don’t know. Manuals. Psychology textbooks. Crime reports?”
He shoots me a look—equal parts skeptical and amused. “You seriously never noticed the portrait in my bedroom?”
At ‘my bedroom’, heat prickles up the back of my neck—no idea why.
“Right…yeah.” I’d completely forgotten about that. “Well, Maugham’s books are kind of intellectual—so that tracks.”
Xavier makes a face, like the word physically hurts. “Intellectual? Come on.”
“What?” I grumble. “They are. And kind of depressing.”
He smirks. “If you say so.”
“So what’s your favorite?” I ask, watching him. “Wait—don’t tell me. The Moon and Sixpence.”
“No! Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know. The Painted Veil, then?”
He shakes his head, smiling. “Of Human Bondage.”
“Of course,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “You really do love a tortured soul.”
Xavier frowns like I’ve missed the point entirely. “It’s not about the suffering.”
“Sure. You just like tragic stories. The pain, the angst, the slow descent into existential despair—very on brand.”
“Tragic stories?” He shoots me a look, almost offended. “That’s a bit reductive.”
I smirk. “Alright, then enlighten me. Why do you like it?”
He turns to face me, leaning back a little. “I just like the way it makes me feel.”
He holds my gaze, steady. The moment stretches, just long enough to set my heart racing. My cheeks heat up. My pulse picks up. And for one stupid, breathless second, I’m sure—he’s not just talking about the book. He’s talking about me.
“Right,” I say quickly, tearing my eyes away. I clear my throat, trying to get my thoughts back in line. “So, Ernest said your mom wants to see you? Why don’t you want to go?”
Xavier scoffs. “She doesn’t. He made that up. She was never all that interested in me—doubt that’s changed now.”
“Maybe because of your father?” I suggest.
Xavier pauses, like the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Maybe.”
“You ever think about taking a day off?”
He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You too, Judas? First Willand, then Ernest, now you…”
“Just saying,” I shrug. “Might do you some good.”
“Not in the middle of an investigation. And wasn’t that exactly what we did yesterday? Wasted an entire day—”
“Right, because food, movies, and sleep are such terrible things,” I deadpan, a little stung.
Xavier glances at me, almost apologetic. “Okay, that part was nice. Would’ve been better, though, if my very rich and very powerful uncle hadn’t dropped in uninvited…”
I clear my throat. “What time did you even get up?”
“Half past eight.”
“I didn’t hear you,” I say, though I don’t even know why that matters.
“Didn’t want to wake you.”
“Oh. Okay.” My cheeks warm again. “Did you manage to sleep at all?”
He nods. “Yeah.” Then, after a pause—softer now, “Not sure if it was the alcohol or just having you there, but…I think it’s the first time in ages I actually relaxed enough to sleep through the night.”
Something tightens in my chest, but I keep my voice steady. “That’s…good.”
Neither of us says anything for a while. The car hums beneath us, the city sliding past in a blur of pale morning light and snow-damp streets.
The cab pulls up in Fulton, stopping at Bolton Gardens. We get out and turn into a narrow alley bordered by high stone walls.
Xavier pulls a few photos from the case file and hands me the folder, using the prints like a map as he steps toward a row of garbage bins along the left wall.
He frowns. “The body was found here.”
I glance around. “No cameras. This place is basically made for a murder.”
“According to the report, Bridge took this route home every evening,” Xavier says, scanning the alley. “And he was robbed here too.”
I flip through the file. “Doesn’t sound like a coincidence. Same alley, just a week apart? Pretty unlikely.”
“Willand thinks so too.”
“But you don’t?”
Xavier shakes his head. “It doesn’t add up.”
“Actually, it kind of does,” I say, skimming the report again. “First time, someone jumped him from behind. They fought, Bridge lost his wallet, didn’t get a good look at the guy. He was caught on a camera over on Bramham, but they couldn’t ID him or track him down.”
“Second time, same deal—wallet’s gone, signs of a struggle, and Bridge got stabbed. Classic robbery gone wrong.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay, what’s your theory then?”
Xavier starts pacing in front of the bins, thinking hard. “What time did the murder happen?”
I check the file. “Last Friday, around 11:25 p.m.”
“And the first robbery?”
“The previous Friday, about 11:40 p.m. Both times, he was coming home from work.”
Xavier stops, frowning, hands on his hips. “How come Willand’s team never caught the robber? They had him on camera.”
“To be fair, he was wearing a mask,” I point out.
“Come on. There are a million ways to ID someone, mask or no mask. They’re just not trying hard enough.”
I shrug. “Well, if we’d said yes to Willand a week ago, Xavier, we probably wouldn’t be here now.”
Xavier’s eyes flash with disapproval. “If you’re suggesting we start investigating petty thefts, Newt, we might as well rescue cats from trees while we’re at it.”
I ignore the sarcasm.
“Walk me through it,” he says, stepping into the middle of the alley. “From the beginning.”
“Alright, let’s see.” I flip through the folder.
“About a week and a half ago—Friday—Bridge was heading home from work. He was at Farewell Security, that real estate firm Willand mentioned. Office is on Wexley Street, not far from here. So he walks down Bolton Gardens, turns into this alley. It’s dark…
he doesn’t see someone hiding.” I glance up and nod toward the bins. “Right there, between those.”
Xavier watches me, waiting.
“Guy was masked,” I say, skimming the page. “Pulled a knife, grabbed the wallet, took off.”
“And the murder?”
“Hang on.” I flip to the next page. “Okay—last Friday. Same routine. Bridge leaves work at 11:17, shows up on a camera on Wexley. It’s about a five-minute walk to here, but Bolton Gardens has no surveillance.
They estimate time of death around 11:25.
Body was found at 11:40. And his wallet was gone again. ”
“But this time, the killer’s a ghost,” Xavier mutters, exhaling sharply. “City’s crawling with cameras, and yet the night of the murder—not one caught him. Like he was never here.”
“Yeah.” I chew my lip, flipping back through the file. “Between 11:15 and 11:40, only three people were seen on the surrounding streets—Bridge, and an elderly couple. They were the ones who found the body and called it in.”
“So,” Xavier says, walking toward the alley’s exit, “no cameras here, but every other street’s covered. Right?”
“Yup.” I nod. “None of them caught anything.”
“Give me the rest of the photos.”
I hand over a few more. Xavier studies them in silence for a full five minutes, then takes the whole folder from me, flips through it, hands it back, and gives me a long, thoughtful look.
“How tall are you, Newt? What—five-five?”
“Five-ten,” I snap, glaring at him.
Xavier ignores me completely. He just frowns, grips my shoulders, and stares into my eyes like he’s running some internal calculation.
My mouth goes dry. I shift, awkward and tense, cursing his total disregard for my personal space.
“Xavier—”
“Shh. I’m thinking.”