CHAPTER 13. LINES #4
He doesn’t argue, just nods and lets go of my hand.
Then he yanks the sweater off, throws it to the floor, and climbs back into bed.
I watch as he slides under the comforter and pulls the tray closer, starting to eat with the kind of focus that makes it look like he’s powering through a chore. I can’t help smiling at that.
As I leave the room, I pause at the door and glance back.
“Hey, mind if I pull the schedule from Bridge’s laptop? The one with all the addresses?”
“I’ll send it over,” Xavier says, without looking up.
“Thanks,” I say, and wait until his eyes meet mine. “I’ll be back soon, alright? Just call me if you need anything.”
He nods again but doesn’t say anything, so I leave, closing the door behind me.
In the living room, I grab my shoes and jacket, then check my phone. Xavier’s already sent the schedule. I pull up the first address in the taxi app and order a ride.
I wait by the window, not heading out until I see the car arrive—just in case the paparazzi are still lurking. But they’re not. So when I open the front door and step outside, the walk to the cab is smooth. No one stops me. Which makes sense—they got what they came for. I handed it to them myself.
As the car pulls away, I rest my head against the window, watching the buildings slide past.
Hopefully we crack the Bridge case by next week so I can finally take a break. From the journalists. The drama. The anxiety. The city.
Maybe visiting my mom isn’t such a bad idea. Sure, she’ll drive me crazy by the end of day one—but walking around my hometown, where no one but her gives a shit about the mess of my life, might actually do me some good.
For a moment, I let myself wonder what it would be like if Xavier came with me.
I don’t know how much of the Xavier from today I can trust—between the poisoning and the meds—but I can fantasize, just for now.
Us walking around my hometown, getting bored out of our minds.
Sleeping in, drinking coffee, reading, wandering through parks.
God, what’s wrong with me? Am I actually dreaming about a boring old man life?
I think I am. These past few days—weeks, really—have been a lot. Even for me. So maybe a little boring is exactly what I need.
I spend the whole ride lost in thought, and when the driver finally says, “We’re here,” it takes me a second to register that the car’s already stopped. I step out onto a quiet, narrow street lined with three-story buildings, check the address, and find the right entrance. Then I knock.
A few moments later, the door opens, and a man steps out—elegant, in his early fifties, dressed in a silk blue shirt and black pants.
“Mr. Colfridge?” I ask.
“Yes?”
“I’m Newt Doherty. I work with SCPD. I just have a few questions about Farewell Security, if that’s alright.”
He gives me a quick once-over, then steps aside to let me in. I walk past him, and he closes the door behind me.
“Why are you asking about Farewell again?” he says as I follow him down a narrow hallway lined with bulky candelabras. “Your people were already here—what else do you need?”
We pass a carpeted staircase winding up to the second floor, then step into a cozy living room with a red rug, gold-framed paintings, a pair of armchairs, and a lit fireplace.
Peak old-man living.
“I know,” I say, evasive. “Just double-checking a few things.”
“They never told me what happened, by the way,” he says, gesturing for me to sit. “I hope you’re not about to tell me it’s some scam company that’s been robbing houses.”
“Nothing like that,” I say, shaking my head as I settle into the chair. “But one of their employees—Cormac Bridge—was murdered the day he came to install your cameras. Do you remember him?”
“Murdered?” Mr. Colfridge frowns as he sits into the armchair across from me. “The man who did the installation?”
“That’s right. Do you remember what time he was here?”
“Around half past ten in the morning. He was quick—done in about an hour.”
“Did he seem off to you in any way?” I ask.
The man shakes his head, thinking. “No… I didn’t notice anything odd. But—who killed him?”
“We don’t know yet,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”
“I see.” He nods slowly, still processing.
“He seemed like a normal guy. He was in a good mood, actually. Cracked a few jokes, told me he’d just come back from a trip to Japan.
I’m sorry—I don’t think I have anything else that could help.
” He falls quiet for a beat, his gaze drifting toward the fireplace.
The room hums with silence, filled only by the soft crackle of burning logs.
Then, almost like he’s remembered something, he adds, “Would you like some coffee and a muffin? I made a batch earlier, but I live alone—can’t finish them by myself. ”
“Oh—thank you, but I’ve got to get going,” I say with a smile.
“I can give you a couple to go,” he offers, smiling—and there’s a warmth in the way his gaze lingers. “Chocolate chip. I’m actually a pretty decent baker, if I say so myself.” He blinks, studying my face like he’s waiting for a yes.
“Alright,” I say, mostly because I’d feel bad turning him down. “I’ll take one to go.”
He lights up and hurries off to the kitchen. I move to the hallway, standing there awkwardly until he returns a minute later with a Tupperware container in hand. Looks like there are at least five muffins inside.
“That’s way too much for me,” I start, but he shakes his head.
“Please, take them,” he says, gently pushing the container into my hands. “They’re dangerously addictive, and if I keep them, I’ll just end up eating every last one.”
“Thanks,” I say, eyeing the container. “But let me at least return it—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he cuts in with a wave. “You can keep it, if you want. Or toss it in the recycling.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” He smiles again, eyes warm and crinkled at the corners.
“That’s very kind of you,” I say. “I should get going now—thanks again.”
“Just in case,” Mr. Colfridge says, pulling a business card from his pocket and handing it to me. “If you need anything else, just give me a call.”
“Thanks,” I reply, taking it as he opens the door.
Outside, I tuck the Tupperware under my arm and pull out my phone to order a taxi to the next address. Then I wait on the curb, watching the street.
That’s when my phone buzzes.
I glance at the screen. Monica.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Hello, little brother,” she says, her tone already suspicious.
“Hey, Mon. How are you?”
“I’m fine. How are you?” she shoots back. “Did he come home?”
“Who?” I ask, stalling even though I know exactly who she means.
“Xavier.”
“Yeah.”
“So you two made up?”
“Uh-huh,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Are you working today?”
“Yes, but don’t change the subject,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “So you’re not sad anymore?”
“No, I’m good,” I say, smiling before I even realize it. I don’t want to overthink it. I just feel good.
There’s a brief pause on her end. Then her tone shifts, suspicious again. “Wait. You’re too happy. What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say, but I already know I’m a terrible liar.
“Newt,” she says, suddenly serious. “Are you two actually together?”
There’s another pause.
“No, of course not,” I snort, rolling my eyes.
“Newt, I know exactly what it sounds like when you’re lying your ass off—and you’re doing it right now,” she says, mock-annoyed. Then she goes quiet for a beat before letting out a gasp of realization. “Wait, wait, wait. Did you guys fuck?”
“Oh god,” I sigh, cringing so hard my face hurts. This is not a conversation I want to have with my sister.
“You did, didn’t you?” she presses. “Don’t lie to me, Newton.”
“We kissed,” I say at last—leaving out the part where Xavier had me on my back, grinding into me with his hard cock, or the part where he jerked me off with his hand slick from his own cum. A kiss did happen, so technically, I’m not lying.
Monica lets out a squeal so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear.
“I called it!” she shouts. “I called it, I called it, I called it!”
“Shut up,” I say, though my smile’s stretching wider by the second. “It doesn’t mean anything. He was sort of…poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” I can practically hear her raising an eyebrow. “Poisoned with love for you?” she giggles.
“Oh, shut it,” I huff, just as I spot a cab pulling up. “I have to go, Mon. I’m in the middle of something.”
“In the middle of kissing Xavier?” she teases, her voice slipping right back into that childhood sing-song tone.
“How old are you, three?” I grumble, trying to sound annoyed—but I’m not. It actually feels…weirdly good to admit that maybe—just maybe—some of it meant something.
“I’m happy for you, little brother,” Monica says, and there’s real warmth in her voice. “You’re a bit old for a coming out party, but hey—you were always a late bloomer.”
“Ha-ha,” I mutter, lips twitching as I reach the taxi. “Talk later. I’ve gotta go.”
“Fine. Say hi to Xavier.”
“I won’t,” I say, and hang up.
As I slide into the car, the smile creeps back onto my face. And for a few minutes, as we pull away and turn onto the main road, I just sit there, grinning to myself like an idiot.
Then I unlock my phone and type out a quick message to Xavier.
Me: How are you feeling? I talked to the first witness. Didn’t learn anything useful but got some muffins to go.
I snap a photo of the Tupperware container on my lap and send that too.
I don’t expect a reply so soon, but it comes within a minute.
Xavier: Better. Which witness?
Me: Colfridge, I write back. Heading to the next one now.
Xavier: How old is he/she?
I pause, wondering what that has to do with anything—but with Xavier, who knows.
Me: He’s a he. Not sure. Early fifties? Why?
I frown, watching the screen. Xavier’s typing—then stops. Starts again.
Xavier: Well, he gave you the container
Me: So?
Xavier: Was he coming on to you?
I pause, completely confused.
Me: Erm, I don’t think so. Why?