CHAPTER 12. OXYGEN #7
My mind’s still stuck on the conversation we didn’t finish in the car, the weight of it lodged somewhere in my chest—but now’s not the time. Not when Xavier looks like he’s one step from collapsing.
We don’t speak as we walk into the building, pass through security, collect our visitor passes, and step into the elevator. The silver doors slide shut behind us, sealing us in.
The air feels dense—thick with everything that happened this morning, and everything we didn’t say.
Xavier stands beside me, motionless. But not relaxed. His shoulders are too stiff, his jaw too tight. I hate when he goes quiet like this.
I clear my throat. “Did you know Ernest ambushed Monica on the street recently?”
Figured the topic of his ever-charming uncle might snap him out of it.
Xavier blinks, then glances over. “Your sister?”
I nod, the tightness in my chest loosening just a little.
“Yeah.” I give him a half-smile. “So you didn’t know?”
He shakes his head, the tension in his shoulders easing, if only slightly.
“As if I ever know what Ernest’s up to. What did he want from her?”
But we don’t get to talk about it.
The elevator dings—second floor—and the doors slide open.
Officer Crowley stands right outside. She starts to step in, then falters for a second when she spots us—mouth curling into that smug little smirk she wears like a badge. Then she walks in.
“Well, look who the cat dragged in,” she says, voice thick with sarcasm as her gaze flicks from Xavier to me.
“Hello, Officer Crowley,” I say, dry as dust.
Xavier doesn’t so much as blink—just stares right past her like she’s invisible, his eyes locked somewhere behind her shoulder.
“We were starting to think we’d have to send a SWAT team to smoke you out of your apartment,” she says as the doors close and the elevator starts moving. Then she plants herself directly in front of us and locks eyes with Xavier, like she’s daring him to bite.
But he doesn’t. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink.
Still, I can see the tension radiating off him, the way he’s holding himself too still—like it’s taking everything he has not to react.
Something twists in my chest.
I hate how he gets cornered the second we walk into this building. And today it’s worse. He’s sick, barely holding himself together, and it’s like she knows it.
When it’s clear he’s not going to take the bait, Crowley turns to me instead, flashing a sweet, venomous smile.
“Your boyfriend’s in big trouble, Mr. Doherty.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” I say, offering the least friendly smile I can manage—though my temples throb with anger. I hate that she’s gloating right to our faces.
“Well, at least you’ve stopped pretending you’re not a thing,” Crowley snickers. “Though the timing’s weird—didn’t I read today about you getting engaged to some ex-girlfriend?”
“I can see you’re very invested in my love life,” I say, the fake smile still stuck on my face. I know I’m not nearly good enough to make it look effortless, but I hold it anyway. “That article was crap.”
That’s when, without warning, Xavier steps in front of me, cutting her off with his back. The elevator cabin’s small, and the shift nudges Crowley sideways.
“Hey,” she mutters, annoyed.
Xavier doesn’t even acknowledge her. He stays close—so close our chests brush—and meets my gaze, eyes calm, unreadable.
“So,” he says, low, “what did he want?”
I can feel his breath on my skin. And yeah, it’s suddenly hard to think—because all I can smell is his cologne, and all I can remember is the way he looked this morning, pinning me to the bed.
“Who?” I manage, just as quiet.
God, I want to kiss him. Press him into the wall. Run my hands over his skin. My heart’s already racing, my gut buzzing with arousal.
The elevator dings—fifth floor.
Xavier glances over his shoulder, waits just long enough for Crowley to step out, then finally moves back, giving me space again.
I follow him out, pulse still hammering in my throat. Crowley storms down the hall, clearly pissed about Xavier’s little trick. She’s already ten feet ahead by the time we step into the corridor, so thankfully we don’t have to deal with her.
“Ernest,” Xavier says as we walk down the corridor. “What did he want from your sister?”
“Ah, nothing really,” I say, trying to sound casual. Now I kind of regret bringing it up—it circles back to us, whether I like it or not. But I can’t dodge it now. Xavier’s watching me, waiting.
So I go, “He, uh…asked her to talk to me or something.” I tack on a quick snort to make it sound less serious, but it doesn’t fool him.
“Talk to you?” he echoes, putting weight on the first word. The narrowing of his eyes tells me he’s already annoyed—and already knows where this is going.
“Well, yeah,” I shrug, like that somehow makes it better.
“About what?”
“Well,” I repeat, stalling. I have no idea how to steer this conversation without steering it straight into a wall. “I don’t really know. But he’s basically worried about you. Which—you already know.”
Xavier’s jaw tightens. He’s clearly fuming. We walk in silence for a moment before he mutters, “I tell him to stay away from you, and now he’s bothering your sister. Did he seriously think that wouldn’t get back to me?”
I shrug, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. “Hey, wanna come visit my mom with me?” I say, mostly joking—just trying to stop him from imagining all the ways he could kill Ernest.
But to my surprise, he actually looks at me, brow furrowed like he’s considering it.
“When?” he asks, way too serious for what this was supposed to be.
“Uh,” I say, thrown. “Couple weeks? Once you’re feeling better.”
“Okay,” he says—and throws me another unreadable, too-serious look.
“Cool,” I say, my cheeks suddenly burning.
The rest of the walk to Willand’s office is quiet.
So yeah—apparently Xavier and I are going to my mom’s now. My stomach twists at the thought, because I just know those two are going to be like Coke and Mentos. She’s set in her ways, and Xavier hates people like that.
But the fact that he’s actually considering it makes my heart flutter. Which is mildly alarming, given I’m a thirty-four-year-old man, not a hormone-hazed teen.
The warm flutter doesn’t last long, though.
It gets steamrolled by a wave of panic. I picture him in her sterile kitchen, drinking coffee while she interrogates him like he’s applying for a fiancé visa.
There’s no way I can take him with me. If she’s read even one of those articles, she’ll be grilling him with every question she’s been saving up since the news broke.
I exhale slowly, reminding myself that I don’t even have to go, if I don’t want to.
I’m still deep in thought as we follow Crowley into Willand’s office, which is probably why it takes me a second to realize we’re not alone.
Willand is behind his desk, a thick folder open in front of him.
Across from him, in the armchairs facing away from the door, sit a man and a woman.
I don’t see their faces right away, but judging by the tight set of Willand’s jaw and the flicker of surprise in his eyes when he spots us, we’ve clearly walked in at the worst possible moment.
Right then, both the man and the woman turn their chairs toward us—and my heart skips a beat.
The woman I recognize instantly: Katie Fairfax.
Her face shifts when she sees me—first surprise, then cool indifference.
And the man next to her, who I’ve never seen before, must be Mr. Rishetor himself.
Back from vacation, if he ever left in the first place.
Early sixties, slicked-back gray hair, and a three-piece suit pulled tight across his stomach.
“Mr. Rishetor, Miss Fairfax, this is Xavier Ormond and Newt Doherty,” Willand says, introducing us.
“Hello,” Xavier says, settling onto the couch beside Willand’s desk, moving slower than usual, like it takes effort. He doesn’t offer a handshake—not that anyone here would take it. So I don’t bother either—just nod a hello and sit down next to him.
Rishetor gives us a slow once-over, cold and assessing. Katie, on the other hand, doesn’t look at us at all. After that one frosty glance in my direction, it’s like I don’t exist. No trace that we spent last evening together—and it had been a pleasant one, too.
“Well,” Rishetor says, his lip curling slightly as he glances at Xavier, “looks like you made it out alive after all. Impressive, considering you spent over ten hours in one of our labs at sub-zero temperature.”
He’s not really speaking to Xavier, though. He’s performing—for Willand, for Katie, maybe even for Crowley, who’s now parked herself by the desk with that smug little smirk she wears so well.
Xavier doesn’t rise to it. He just exhales like he couldn’t care less. “What’s this about?”
Willand doesn’t even get a chance to answer—Rishetor cuts in first.
“This is about me and my center pressing charges against you, Mr. Ormond,” he says, clearly enjoying himself, though the edge in his voice gives him away. Honestly, he and Crowley should take their routine on the road. “For trespassing.”
Xavier doesn’t flinch. “Might want to hold off on that,” he says, voice hoarse. “Because if I was there, then what I saw is real. And what I saw,” he adds, his gaze resting coldly on Rishetor, “makes trespassing look like a parking ticket.”
Rishetor stares at him for a moment, caught off guard, then rallies. “I don’t know what you think you saw, Mr. Ormond, but if you plan to make accusations, be prepared to defend them in court.”
Xavier opens his mouth, but Willand cuts him off with a look.
“Let’s keep this civil,” he says evenly. Though there’s the faintest gleam in his eye. He’s not exactly neutral here.
“I’m just saying,” Xavier says, his smile anything but innocent, “I doubt Mr. Rishetor wants me testifying after what I found out.” If I didn’t know better, I’d think the flush in his cheeks was triumph, not fever. “Namely, that he’s been covering up the real reason Wakefield died.”