CHAPTER 9. HINGE #3
He stays like that for another fifteen seconds, then suddenly spins me around and presses his hand flat against my shoulder blade.
“What the hell are you doing?” I murmur, my mouth not quite working right.
“Testing a theory.” He lets go without explanation and strides out of the alley.
“Care to share it with the rest of the class?” I mutter, catching up.
We step onto Bolton Gardens and head up the street.
“The robbery and the murder were committed by different people,” Xavier says, glancing over at me. “It’s obvious from the injuries. Based on the wound, the killer was roughly my height—just over six feet. The robber caught on camera was about five-five.”
“So it’s just a coincidence?” I frown. “Same victim, same alley, twice?”
“Could just be dumb luck,” he says. “But I doubt it. We need to talk to Bridge’s wife. But first, you need food.”
“I—what?” I say, completely thrown, but Xavier’s already steering me down the sidewalk with a hand between my shoulder blades, and I don’t argue.
We cross Bolton Gardens and step into a small café on the corner of Collingham Road called The Ponds.
“What about the wallet?” I ask as the door chimes behind us. I mostly just need to say something—anything—to distract myself from the fact that Xavier’s hand is now on the small of my back, guiding me inside. “The killer took that too.”
“It was just a distraction,” Xavier says, brushing it off.
The café is empty. A bleary-eyed waitress leads us to a window booth with red faux-leather seats overlooking the street.
I order two full breakfasts—one for each of us. While we wait, the waitress brings coffee, flashing me a warm smile as she sets down the cups.
Xavier catches it. I can tell because the moment she walks away, his eyebrow lifts.
“What?” I say, lips tightening.
“Nothing,” he replies, all innocence.
I roll my eyes. “Spit it out before you burst.”
“I’ve got nothing to say.” He shrugs, sipping his coffee.
“Nothing to say? Really? You should see your face.”
Xavier leans back, eyeing me over the rim of his cup. “Just trying to figure out what women see in you,” he mutters.
I shoot him a look, something inside me twisting with a sharp, stupid sting. “Obviously, they find me attractive,” I blurt, face going hot.
Xavier blinks, like he’s just realized what he said. “No—I didn’t mean you’re not…attractive.” He clears his throat, cheeks coloring. “It’s just…they look at you like…” He trails off, clearly flustered.
“Like what?” I ask, trying not to sound so pathetically hurt. “Go on, spit it out.”
“Like you’re a teddy bear they want to cuddle.”
I choke on my coffee just as I take a sip to calm down. “Well, is that so hard to believe?” I manage, a little steadier now—though I’m still clearly offended.
“Yeah,” Xavier says, looking cornered. “You just don’t seem…the type.”
I snort, lifting my chin. Then—before I can stop myself—I say, “I didn’t see you complaining last night.”
The second it’s out, I wish I could take it back.
Xavier stares at me, face turning red. I blink, wincing a little. The silence that follows feels way too loud.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, voice low, a little defensive.
Then, just as the waitress shows up, he adds, “I meant you look like someone people want to fuck first, then cuddle. But maybe that’s just me.”
I nearly spill my coffee again, cheeks flaming as the waitress—who definitely heard that—sets our plates down as fast as she can before retreating to the counter.
My brain short-circuits for a good five seconds. Did Xavier really just say that?
I’m still red, still trying to form a sentence, when he speaks again. “Sorry.”
That snaps me out of it. Of course—he said it just to mess with the waitress.
“You’re such an ass,” I mutter, stabbing my bacon harder than necessary, heart pounding, body fully betrayed. “Did you have to say that in front of her?”
“Why?” Xavier asks, cool now. “Were you planning to chat her up?”
“No,” I scoff. “I just don’t like being the punchline in public.”
“I wasn’t joking,” he says, holding my gaze.
I glance up, caught off guard. He’s looking right at me, unreadable.
But before I can say anything, the café door swings open with a jingle, and a young man in a black jacket steps inside.
“Morning, Stacy. The usual, please,” he calls from the doorway.
“Morning, Bernard!” the waitress beams back at him.
I glance up—and it takes me a second to place him. Bernard Nimoy. Fred’s coworker from The Chronicle.
His gaze lands on me, and after a short pause, his face lights up.
“Mr. Doherty!” He strides toward our table, shaking his head in disbelief. “And Mr. Ormond! What a surprise. What brings you to my neighborhood?”
“Just breakfast,” I say, shaking his hand.
Xavier does the same, though his expression cools noticeably.
“Me too. I have breakfast here every morning,” Bernard says, nodding toward the booth. “Mind if I join?”
“Not at all,” I say, scooting closer to the window.
He slides in beside me without hesitation. Across from us, Xavier lifts his coffee and takes a long, slow sip, eyes locked on me with a perfectly blank expression.
I know that look.
I ignore it.
“You live around here then?” I ask as Bernard settles in, tucking his leather briefcase under the table.
“Just down the street,” he says with a grin. “Lucky me—it’s the only place nearby where a bachelor like me can get a proper breakfast without burning down the kitchen.”
I chuckle, then quickly steer the conversation to work before Xavier can roll his eyes into another dimension and hit him with something snarky.
“Anything interesting today?”
“Got a big scoop,” Bernard says, grinning. “Front-page material.”
“Yeah? What’ve you got?” I lean in, curious.
“You hear about Minister Craig’s latest mess?”
“I’ve caught bits and pieces,” I say. “It’s buzzing online…”
Bernard’s smile turns sly. “Yep. Married fifteen years, and now he’s fooling around with some boy toy. Pretty messy stuff.”
“Thought your paper was above that kind of gossip,” Xavier cuts in, voice sharp with contempt.
Bernard raises an eyebrow.
“When’s the last time you actually read our paper, Mr. Ormond? Don’t get me wrong—I love The Chronicle. But we’re not exactly The Times. We’re all just trying to keep our heads above water. Sometimes that means getting our hands a little dirty.”
“So you make a living dragging people through the mud,” Xavier says, his voice flat. He’s trying to stay calm, but the tension in his jaw gives him away.
Bernard shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of the accusation. “Mr. Ormond…look, I really am sorry about everything with you and Mr. Doherty, but it’s not my fault The Weekend Herald ran that piece.”
I take a long sip of coffee, my face heating up. Xavier doesn’t even blink.
“Is there anyone in this city who hasn’t seen that article?” he says, lips curled in distaste.
Bernard glances between us, managing a sheepish smile. “I didn’t, actually. Fred Collins filled me in.”
Xavier shoots me an accusatory look. I pretend not to notice.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, turning back to Bernard. “You’re doing the same thing to other people.”
Bernard sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, it’s not like this is what I set out to do. It’s not even my usual beat—I cover crime, politics, real news. But this?” He shrugs, helpless. “My editor wanted the story. He made the call. I didn’t really have a choice.”
Before Xavier can respond, the waitress arrives with Bernard’s breakfast, and the table goes quiet.
While the waitress clears space on the table with one hand, balancing a tray with the other, I reach over to help.
“Let me,” I say, and she blushes, not quite meeting my eyes.
That’s when I feel Xavier’s gaze flick between us. I look up at him, confused—but before I can say anything, he snaps, “Come on, give it to me,” reaching for the tray, the edge in his voice unmistakable.
The waitress looks up, startled.
“It’s fine,” she says, and the tray wobbles as she instinctively tightens her grip—but it’s too late.
I can see it unfolding in slow motion: the coffee pot slipping off the edge, tumbling toward the table.
Xavier lifts his hands to catch it, but it’s hot, and it slips through his fingers, splashing coffee across his coat, his pants, his black shirt, and finally lands on the seat, unbroken.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry!” the waitress gasps, eyes wide, already reaching for napkins. But Xavier doesn’t even look at her. He swears loudly, shoots up from the booth, and stalks off toward the bathroom, dripping coffee all the way.
“I’m so sorry,” the waitress mumbles, eyes starting to tear up.
“It’s fine,” I say quietly, trying to reassure her as Bernard and I slide out of the booth. He grabs a handful of napkins from the holder and crouches to help her clean up.
“I’ll go check on him,” I murmur, and when he nods, I head toward the bathroom.
I push the door open and peek inside. “Xavier? You okay?”
The bathroom’s small—three stalls, five sinks, multicolored tiles on the floor. A single flickering light buzzes overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow.
From one of the stalls, Xavier mutters, “Yeah.”
I hover in the doorway, not sure if I should go in or wait.
“Do you…uh, need help?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then I hear the soft click of the middle stall door, and Xavier steps out, looking miserable.
“How bad is it?” I ask, walking up to him, eyeing the soaked clothes. “Let me see.”
“It’s fine,” he mutters, though there’s a wince in his expression. “Just got burned on my stomach.”
“Let me see,” I repeat, stepping closer.
He hesitates, then lifts his shirt. A large red blotch stands out against his skin. It doesn’t look too bad, but I lean in anyway, trying to see if the skin is starting to blister.
“You need to splash some cold water on it, so it doesn’t swell,” I say, brushing my fingers lightly over the spot. Xavier sucks in a sharp breath. I glance up—he’s frowning, tense, eyes locked on mine.
“A cold shower would be ideal, but you’d have to go home for that,” I say. “And by then, it’ll be too late. Come here.”
I take him gently by the elbow and pull him toward the sink, grab a paper towel, and run it under cold water. Xavier just stands there, frozen, as I start dabbing the burn on his abdomen.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” I say as I press the towel to his skin. “You should be alright.”
“Thanks,” Xavier says—and then, after a beat, his hand closes around my wrist, holding it there.
My heart skips. Our eyes meet, and for a second, everything goes still. His gaze is steady, pupils dark in the dim yellow light. My pulse thrums in my throat, my skin buzzing under his touch. I swear he’s about to kiss me.
But then—like the universe just can’t help itself—my phone rings, loud in the quiet room.
I flinch. Xavier lets go, stepping back. The spell breaks.
“Sorry,” I mutter, flustered, pulling my phone from my pocket.
Unknown Number. I swipe to answer.
“Hello?”
“Newt?”
“Yeah?”
It’s a woman, but I don’t recognize the voice right away.
“It’s Katie.”
I blink, taking a second to catch up. “Katie! Yes. Hi!”
He lets the shirt fall, looks away, and tosses the towel in the bin. I watch as he grabs another paper towel to blot his coat.
“Am I too early?” Katie asks after a pause, her voice a little hesitant.
“No, no,” I say quickly. “I’m already working.”
“Oh, good.” Another pause. “Did you get my text yesterday?”
Shit. I completely forgot.
“Yeah,” I say, then lie without missing a beat. “I was just about to call you back…”
“Oh, cool. Would you like to meet up? Grab a coffee? I’m free in two hours…if you’d like, that is.”
“Yes, sure,” I say, catching Xavier’s gaze in the mirror. He looks away.
“Perfect. Maybe we could relive our high school days and hit up La Marseillaise on Cottonhill Square?”
“Perfect. So, there at noon?”
“Yes. See you then!”
“See you.”
I hang up and glance at Xavier. “Katie wants to meet up.”
“Mm,” Xavier hums, unreadable.
“I’ll ask her about letting us into Rishetor one more time,” I say, just to break the sudden tension between us.
Xavier meets my gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch for a second as he tucks his shirt into his pants.
“It’s fine,” he says—almost bitter. “You don’t need an excuse.”
“What?” I blink, thrown. “Excuse for what?”
“Nothing,” he says, buttoning his coat. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Bridge myself.”
Right. Mrs. Bridge. I’d almost forgotten.
“I still have time,” I say, exasperated. “I’ve got two hours.”
“It’s fine,” he says again, colder this time. “Go enjoy your date.”
I blink, stunned by the way it lands—like an accusation.
“It’s not a date,” I say, my throat going dry. “Why are you picking a fight over nothing?”
“I’m not picking a fight,” he says, not looking at me. But I can already feel the wall he’s thrown up between us.
“Then what is it?” I snap, arms crossing over my chest.
He turns to me, jaw tight, eyes almost angry—and for a second, I think he might actually yell. His glare is sharp enough to cut. His whole body’s tense, breaths coming fast.
But before he can say anything, the bathroom door creaks open and Bernard’s head pops in.
“Guys, I hate to interrupt, but there’s a swarm of paparazzi outside the café. And it looks like they’re here for you…”
“Shit,” I mutter, turning to Xavier—but he just brushes past me without a word and walks out.