CHAPTER 13. LINES #5
Xavier: That’s a very old trick, Newt. He gave you the container so you’d have to return it.
I snort at the absurdity—then pause. The guy did say I didn’t have to bring it back, sure, but he also smiled a lot. And gave me his business card. Maybe Xavier has a point. Not that I’d admit it.
Me: I’m not going to return it, if that’s what you’re asking ;)
I brace for something snarky in return. But what I get is…different.
Xavier: I know you’re not. With your plans and all
I frown. What does that mean? Is he still high on diazepam? It seemed like it was already wearing off when I left.
Me: My plans?
Xavier: Well, you promised to marry me
I blink, heat rushing to my face. What?
I start typing—Did you check your temperature?—but before I can hit send, another message pops up.
Xavier: And get a dog together
Oh. My. God.
The second it hits me, my face burns—like someone rubbed chili oil all over it. The fucking paparazzi.
If Xavier’s seen my confession, that means the whole world has too.
I freeze, scrambling for something nonchalant to say. But there’s nothing. Because yeah. I really did say that.
All I can manage is—
Me: How did you even find it?
Xavier: I didn’t. My uncle did. He called me—very scandalized. I think he has a Google alert set up for my name or something.
Me: Fuck
Me: Sorry
Me: I was pissed.
There’s a pause—then three messages come in at once:
Xavier: Don’t be
Xavier: It’s kind of cute
Xavier: Might make it my alarm tone
I type the reply, ears burning.
Me: Well, now there’s going to be even more rumors about us. Crowley’s going to have a field day.
Xavier reads it—but doesn’t reply.
I stare at the screen for a couple of minutes, waiting. Nothing. Just “Read.”
And of course, I start spiraling. Did that come off like I’m embarrassed? Ashamed? Shit. That’s not what I meant—but it kind of sounds like it. I should probably say something else. Clarify. But how?
What am I supposed to do—tell him I’m possibly deeply in love with him? That I wouldn’t mind marrying him and getting a dog together? That it actually sounds like a dream retirement plan?
Right. Sure.
Maybe I’m overthinking. Maybe he just didn’t know what to say. Or maybe he fell asleep. Yeah. That’s probably it.
Still, I spend the rest of the ride to the next witness second-guessing my message.
The taxi drops me off in front of a polished black door—number six Coulson Street. Just as I’m stepping out, the door swings open and a woman walks out. Barbara Sollors, apparently. Mid-forties, long gray hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, aquiline nose.
“Hi there, ma’am,” I say, trying to get her attention as she turns to lock the door behind her.
She glances at me, then does a quick double take.
“Hello,” she says, straightening a little. Her posture shifts—cautious now. “Do I know you?”
“No,” I say, “My name is Newt Doherty—I’m with SCPD—”
“I’m sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry,” she cuts in, slipping her keys into her bag as she moves to pass me.
I fall into step beside her.
“I won’t take much of your time, ma’am. This is important.”
She sighs, a little exasperated, but keeps walking toward her car parked across the street.
“Alright. Is this about Farewell Security again?”
I nod. “The technician who came to install your cameras—Cormac Bridge—was murdered. Same day he did your setup.”
She pauses by her Audi, pulling out her keys. Her eyebrows lift.
“Murdered? That same day?”
“Yes.”
“Well…” Her tone is flat. “That’s unfortunate. But what does that have to do with me?”
“Do you remember what time he came to install the cameras?”
“Around noon, I think,” she says with a shrug. “But I didn’t really talk to him. I was on a work call—he came in, did his thing, and left. I just opened the door, signed some papers, and we had a quick chat about how the system works. That was it.”
“Did anything about him seem unusual?” I ask, already expecting the answer.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “To be honest, I didn’t really pay him much attention. Can I go now?”
“Sure,” I nod. “Thanks for your time, ma’am.”
She gives a brief nod and gets into her car. I head back up the road, pulling out my phone to check the next address.
The third witness, Christopher Hill, lives in Arana—the upscale part of Shorewitch where most of the city’s wealthiest residents have their homes.
It’s only a ten-minute drive, and for the first few minutes, I just sit back and try to clear my head.
But then, against my better judgment, I pull out my phone and google the news about Xavier and me—just to see how bad it is.
The answer: bad. Dozens of headlines, each one more ridiculous and speculative than the last. I close the browser with a sigh and spend the rest of the ride staring out the window.
When the cab drops me off, I start down the street, passing one perfect house after another, each tucked behind its own gate and fence.
It’s a quiet neighborhood—the kind where even the air feels expensive.
I keep walking, eyes scanning the house numbers, until I spot the right one: black iron railings, neatly trimmed hedges, clean white facade.
I pause in front of it, pull out my phone, and send Xavier a quick text before heading in.
Me: Are you asleep?
Then I press the buzzer at the gate. It clicks open almost immediately. I step into the small yard, still patchy with melting snow, and walk up the driveway toward the porch. Just as I reach it, the front door swings open.
A man around my age opens the door, looking at me with a flicker of confusion.
“You’re not the delivery guy,” he says, frowning.
He’s handsome, with soft features, clear blue eyes, and neatly styled hair. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, though I can’t quite place it.
“Are you Mr. Hill?” I ask. “Newt Doherty—I’m with SCPD.”
“Police?” he repeats, glancing over my shoulder toward the street before looking back at me, frowning. “You don’t really look like a cop.”
“I’m with the Partners-in-Crime detective agency,” I say. “We collaborate with the Robbery-Homicide Unit at SCPD.”
“Right…” he says slowly, still frowning. “So what’s this about?”
I clear my throat. “Did you recently have cameras installed at your house?”
“No, they were installed a while ago,” he says, shaking his head. “I just had them repaired—they stopped working. Why do you ask?”
“Well, Cormac Bridge—the Farewell Security technician who came to fix your cameras—was murdered,” I say.
Hill’s expression tightens. “Wait—what?” He blinks, like he didn’t hear me right. “Are you serious? The guy who came here?”
I nod. “He was killed that same day. Possibly not long after leaving your house. Do you remember what time he finished the job?”
Hill rubs the back of his neck, still processing. “Jesus. I mean…not exactly. He showed up late—like, hours late. I had something important that evening, so I just left him here. Told him to leave the keys on the kitchen counter, and he did.”
“So he let himself out?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Hill says, thinking it over. “Closed the door and the gate, like I told him. You don’t need a key—just pull it shut and it locks.”
“You said he was a few hours late,” I say, pulling up the schedule on my phone. “Do you remember what time he actually showed up?”
“Around seven, I think,” Hill says. “I was already heading out.”
“And when did you get back?”
“Around ten-thirty. He was gone by then. He called me sometime after eight, but I didn’t pick up. I figured he just wanted to say he was leaving.”
“Can you tell me where you were that evening?” I ask, watching him shift. He looks uneasy now—in the set of his shoulders and the look on his face.
“You don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you?” His voice sharpens a little.
“It’s a standard question, Mr. Hill,” I say, keeping my tone even. “I have to ask.”
“I was with a friend.”
“Alright,” I nod. “I’d appreciate their number, just to confirm.”
He blinks at me—and for a moment, I’m almost sure he goes pale. Then, quickly recovering, he says, “He’s out of the country right now. But I can take your number and ask him to call you when he’s back.”
“Please do,” I say. I give him my number, and he types it into his phone. “What’s his name, by the way?” I ask.
Hill blinks, hesitates for a beat. “Bill.”
“Just Bill?”
“Craig.”
“Alright,” I say, noting it down. “Thanks.” I give him a small nod. “Goodbye, Mr. Hill.”
He nods back. “Bye.”
I turn to leave, feeling his eyes on me the whole way to the gate. I step outside and pull it shut behind me.
Well, at least that’s one witness I’m sure is lying about something. I don’t think he killed Bridge, but he’s definitely hiding something. And he was the only one of the witnesses not listed in the police report—which might mean something, too.
I head up the street, scanning for a place to call a cab—I don’t want to linger in front of Hill’s house too long, not with him possibly still watching. That stare of his was unsettling.
I wish Xavier were here with me. He’d probably catch something I missed—a flicker in the guy’s voice, a shift in posture—and crack the whole thing wide open.
Just as I’m thinking that, my phone buzzes.
I pull it out, half expecting a text—but it’s a call. My chest tightens the moment I see his name.
“Hey,” I say, picking up. “You okay?”
“Newt…” Xavier’s voice breaks through, thin and frayed, barely holding together.
I stop in the middle of the street, heart pounding in my ears. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s…blood.” His voice is hoarse, uneven.
“What?” My stomach drops, and my vision blurs. “I’ll call 911—”
“It’s not mine,” he cuts in.
“Whose blood is it, Xavier?” I ask, panic rising fast. “Where are you? Are you hurt?”
“I’m in Fulton…” he says, breath catching. “At Mrs. Bridge’s house. I’m not hurt…but she’s dead.”
“What?” I breathe, my tongue going numb. For a second, panic slams into me—my mind jumping to the worst possible scenario: that he killed her. But I force myself to breathe. No. That can’t be it. “Is there someone else in the house? Did you call the police?”
“N-no.” I’m not even sure which question he’s answering, but it doesn’t matter.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know,” he says, his breathing uneven, like he can’t catch a full breath. “Someone attacked her.”
“I’m calling Willand,” I say quickly. “And an ambulance. Just stay there—I’m really close. I’ll be there soon, okay?”
“Yeah…okay…” he says, and then the line goes dead.