CHAPTER 10. EXPOSED
The bells over the entrance jingle like a warning. At least half a dozen journalists have already crammed into the café, and the second I step into the hallway, I’m hit with a barrage of flashing cameras.
Xavier stands by the bathroom door, momentarily stunned—like even he wasn’t expecting this level of chaos. Leading the charge is none other than Selena Hast, pushing ahead with the rest of the press at her heels.
“Mr. Ormond! Just a few questions—”
“Mr. Doherty, is it true that you and Xavier Ormond—”
The waitress plants herself in front of them, trying to block their path. Her eyes are still red from earlier, but she squares her shoulders and says firmly, “Ladies and gentlemen, please take a seat or leave the café.”
It’s a solid effort—but it doesn’t do a damn thing. The journalists don’t even look at her.
“Mr. Ormond, can you comment on—”
Bernard turns to us, urgency written all over his face. “You need to get out of here. Now.”
The hallway flickers with relentless bursts of camera flashes, turning the dim space into a dizzying strobe of white light.
Xavier, with his back to the crowd, throws Bernard a dry look. “And how exactly do you suggest we do that?”
I can feel the tension radiating off him, but he doesn’t look at me—jaw tight, lips pressed into a line, eyes fixed on Bernard like I’m not even there.
Nimoy hesitates, then jerks his head toward the far end of the hallway. “Slip out the back. I’ll try to distract them. Once you’re through the gate, head down Bolton Gardens, take a left—you should be able to catch a cab there.”
“Thanks, Bernard,” I say quickly, and Xavier and I break into a run down the narrow corridor.
As soon as we’re out, a crisp breeze hits my face. The backyard is nothing more than a small patch of concrete, boxed in by a black fence. On the left, it runs straight into the side of the building; on the right, it ends at a gate.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out—one new message.
It’s from Fred Collins.
Fred: Newt, buddy, maybe we could meet for a beer tonight? ;)
I leave him on read and lock the screen, stuffing the phone back into my pocket. Fred is the last thing I want to deal with right now.
When I look up, I see Xavier already stepping out of the backyard.
“Xavier!” I call after him, but he doesn’t react, like he hasn’t heard me—shoulders stiff, back straight. “Xavier!”
I follow him—and that’s when I realize where we are. Same alley—the one where Bridge was killed.
Xavier just keeps walking toward the far end, never once turning back.
“Can you just stop?!” I say, catching up to him and grabbing his shoulder, forcing him to turn.
“What?” he mutters, letting out a breath—exasperated, like I’m the one being difficult.
“Where are you going?” My voice feels wrong—tight in my throat, as though it might break.
“To see Bridge’s wife.” His eyes don’t leave mine, but there’s a wall there now—cold, unreachable.
I hold his gaze, searching for something. I don’t know what I’m expecting. Maybe waiting for an explanation is asking too much. But I hoped for at least…something.
“Why are you pushing me away?” The words come out sharper than I mean them to, louder too.
“Pushing you away,” he repeats, like it catches him off guard.
“Yes,” I say. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Xavier, but just talk to me. Please.”
I wait—for a beat, for a breath, for anything that feels like him. But he just scoffs, like I’m overreacting, then says, softer, “If you’re coming with me—let’s go.”
He keeps walking.
I sigh, disappointment burning in my chest, and follow—barely holding myself from stopping him again and making a scene. Jesus, why is he like this, and why do I feel so helpless and stupid?
We step out of the alley onto the same quiet street the taxi dropped us off on when we got here. Small, fenced yards line both sides, each with black gates and narrow paths leading up to red-brick townhouses.
It takes us a couple of minutes to find the Bridge residence. We don’t talk, don’t look at each other. Just push open the gate and head straight for the porch.
Xavier knocks, and a moment later the door swings open, revealing a young woman with curly blonde hair, pale skin, and striking blue eyes.
“Mrs. Bridge?” Xavier asks.
She hesitates. “Yes?”
“I’m Xavier Ormond, and this is my partner, Newt Doherty. We’re from the Partners-in-Crime Detective Agency. We’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband.”
Her expression hardens. “I’ve already spoken to the police. Are you journalists or something?”
“No,” I say quickly. “We’re working with the SCPD on the investigation.”
I purposely avoid saying your husband’s death—she already looks like she’s barely holding it together.
She leans against the doorframe, eyeing us, one hand gripping the handle like she’s deciding whether to just slam the door in our faces. But then her expression shifts, a flicker of recognition passing through as her gaze moves from Xavier to me. She narrows her eyes.
“Alright,” she says, and steps aside to let us in.
Inside, the living room is warm and cluttered.
One wall is lined with bookshelves, packed so full the colorful spines lean into each other for space.
Across from them, a glass cabinet displays porcelain figurines and old photographs.
Two little boys—one maybe four, the other around seven—sit cross-legged on the rug, locked in battle with toy soldiers.
Mrs. Bridge shows us to the couch. The boys glance up at us, eyes full of curiosity.
“Hello there,” I say, offering a smile. They keep playing, a little wary.
I sink into the cushions. Xavier sits beside me, perched on the edge—focused, already switched on.
Without preamble, he asks, “Mrs. Bridge, what time did your husband usually get home?”
She settles into the chair across from us, frowning. “After eleven, most nights. I’ve already told the police.”
“His office was nearby, right?” Xavier says, ignoring the comment.
Her gaze flicks to her boys, a sad smile ghosting across her lips.
“Yeah. About a ten-minute walk. When Cormac’s firm moved here, we thought we’d lucked out—shorter commute, safer neighborhood… It seemed too good to be true.” She pauses, blinking rapidly as her eyes start to tear up. “Sorry,” she murmurs, tugging a crumpled tissue from her pocket.
“He installed cameras in people’s homes,” I say. “So he traveled too.”
Mrs. Bridge nods. “He worked out of the office, and when he needed to go on-site he’d take the company car. He’d bring it back and walk home.”
Xavier doesn’t miss a beat. “Did you speak to him that day?”
“Yeah. A couple of times. I called just before he was supposed to head home.”
Xavier’s eyes narrow. “What did you talk about?”
She exhales, shoulders sagging. “Nothing much. I asked him to grab milk—he said he would. It was just a quick call…” She trails off, dabbing at her eyes again.
The older boy abandons his toys and wanders over to me. I give him a quick smile and turn back to his mother, but he pipes up, “Mister, do you have a gun?”
I blink, caught off guard, then shake my head. “No, I don’t.”
He squints at me like he’s checking for a lie. Xavier gives him a blank glance, then turns back to Mrs. Bridge. “Did your husband ever work from home?”
She frowns. “Yes. Why does that matter?”
“Did he have a computer?”
“Yes. A laptop.” She hesitates. “It’s in his study. I can get it for you.”
Xavier stands. “It’s fine—I’ll go with you.”
“Alright.” Mrs. Bridge gets up, then glances at me. “Could you stay with the boys, please?”
I nod. “Sure.”
As soon as they leave, I pull out my phone and text Fred.
Me: Sorry, can’t tonight. Things are still a little crazy.
I lock the screen and let my gaze drift over the toy soldiers scattered across the carpet, but my mind’s elsewhere.
Xavier’s been off these past few days. Yeah, his dad just died—but this feels like something else.
The way he looks right through me, the edge in his voice, how he shuts down the second I try to get him to talk…
It isn’t just grief. It isn’t even anger. I can’t pin it down.
During the day, he’s cold, detached, defensive. At night, he’s vulnerable. The way he asked me to stay last night—like he actually needed me…
I can’t keep up with the whiplash. Last night and this morning I thought we were moving forward—somewhere, at least. Now it feels like we’re sliding right back.
My phone buzzes, yanking me out of my thoughts.
Fred: Maybe we could meet at your place then?
I sigh and shove the phone back into my pocket. Fred. On Hickory Road. Perfect. As if there’s anything Xavier would hate more.
“Is that mister your friend?” a small voice asks.
I look up. The older boy is watching me again, eyes curious.
“Who?” I say, thrown off.
“The serious mister.” He points to Xavier’s seat. “Is he your friend?”
I snort. “Yeah.”
“Is he always like that?”
I snort again. “Pretty much.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “No idea,” I say—then wince, because it’s true.
The boy squints at me, quiet for a second. Then he says, “Maybe he’s got a splinter in his paw.”
I blink. “A splinter?”
He nods. “Like the lion in the story.”
I let out a surprised laugh, shaking my head. “You know what? You might be onto something.”
Right then, Xavier and Mrs. Bridge step back into the room.
“Thank you,” she says, offering me a small smile.
“No problem,” I reply. “You’ve got some smart kids.”
Her smile deepens as she ruffles the older boy’s hair. That’s when Xavier looks over—expression unreadable, gaze fixed on me.
“We can go now.”
I nod, surprised he’s ready to leave so quickly. But judging by the look on his face, Xavier got what he came for.
We say goodbye to Mrs. Bridge and step outside. The warmth of the house vanishes the moment the door clicks shut behind us, biting air rushing in to take its place.
“We need to go home,” Xavier says, straight to the point. “I need to check something.”