CHAPTER 14. LURED
Even though Bolton Gardens is only a few blocks from Hill’s apartment, I know it’ll take at least ten minutes if I run. I don’t have time to wait for a taxi either, so I rush out onto the street and flag down a cab by hand, calling Willand at the same time.
He doesn’t fully understand what’s happening, but the urgency in my voice must be enough—he says he’ll head to the Bridges’ house right away and promises to call an ambulance and the crime-scene unit. I’m grateful he doesn’t waste time asking questions.
As the taxi speeds through the streets, I clutch my phone, my heart hammering against my ribs, adrenaline burning through my chest. My mind keeps racing through possible explanations for what happened, but none of them make any sense.
Why did Xavier even go to Mrs. Bridge’s house?
How did she end up dead? And what the hell is going on?
The time drags unbearably slow, but when we pull up to Bolton Gardens, it’s only been five minutes. I throw a quick thanks at the driver and jump out, sprinting toward the Bridges’ house. No police cars yet, no ambulance.
The front gate’s open. I rush through the yard, which feels eerily still. When I reach the front door, I see it’s ajar too. I nudge it open carefully with my elbow, not wanting to leave any prints.
As I step inside, the sharp, metallic smell of blood hits me like a punch, and my stomach twists into a knot. My breath catches, panic crashing over me again. I move into the living room, eyes darting around.
“Xav—” I call out—but his name catches halfway up my throat.
He’s sitting on the couch, frozen like a statue carved out of marble, his arms held stiffly away from his sides, hands stained red. Across his chest, a huge, vivid stain bleeds through his shirt and parts of his coat.
My lungs seize. I lunge toward him—only to catch a glimpse of the motionless body sprawled across the floor, blood pooling thick around it. I stop mid-step, heart hammering, the realization crashing over me: this is still an active crime scene.
Xavier stands up from the couch the second he sees me, his face deathly pale, his eyes glassy.
“Newt,” he says, his voice cracking. “Are the police coming?”
“Yes,” I manage, barely holding myself back from rushing over to check him head to toe. “Are you hurt?”
My voice trembles—I can hear it, but I can’t get it under control.
Panic clamps around my chest and won’t let go.
I was never like this before, not even when my own life was on the line.
Now it feels like something in me has shifted.
Maybe it’s Xavier. Maybe caring about him has stripped away the armor I used to have. Made me softer. Weaker.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I tried to stop her bleeding, but I couldn’t.”
Some of the fear gripping my chest loosens, but I still can’t help scanning him for any injuries he might have missed. He looks unhurt, so I finally let myself turn to Mrs. Bridge.
She’s lying flat on her back in the center of the room, eyes wide open, a deep, ugly gash slashed across her neck. There’s so much blood, I already know there’s no point checking for a pulse. She’s gone.
“God…” My throat tightens, a thick lump rising. “What happened?”
Xavier blinks hard, like he’s still trying to make sense of it.
“I took a cab here,” he says, his voice unsteady. “I was walking up to the door, and then—I heard a scream. I tried to open it, and he—he was already running out—he knocked me down.”
He draws in a sharp breath, his hands twitching at his sides like he doesn’t know where to put them.
“Who was it?”
“A man. Wearing a mask. I didn’t see his face. I didn’t see anything.” He exhales, pressing his lips together like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “I wanted to go after him… But I knew I wouldn’t catch him. Not like this.”
I nod, voice low as I ask, “And after that?”
“I went inside,” he says, barely audible now. “She was already on the floor. She was…trying to stop the bleeding.”
He tilts his head toward the far wall, and that’s when I see it: a streak of blood sprayed high across the wallpaper, still fresh and glistening. Arterial spray.
“I tried to help her,” Xavier continues, voice barely there. “But the cut was too deep. She died almost instantly…in my hands.”
He’s so shaken it makes my chest ache. I want to pull him into a hug, but I don’t. I just hope there are cameras outside—because the last thing we need is the cops trying to pin this on him.
“You did everything you could,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I know you did, Xavier. Don’t even think about blaming yourself.”
He looks away, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me. For a second, I catch the glint of tears in his eyes before he turns his head, blinking them back.
We stand there, stuck in the heavy silence. Then Xavier jolts, like something just hit him.
“The kids,” he says. “They’re in the kitchen. I locked them in. They saw him kill her—they were crying, and I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Oh God,” I breathe. “I’ll get them.”
Xavier nods—and it scares me how pale he looks, like he’s about to pass out again. He points me to the door, and I head over, already trying to figure out how to get the kids out without them seeing their mother again.
When I step into the kitchen and close the door behind me, I spot them right away—huddled under the table.
Both boys look up at me, wide-eyed and wary.
“Hey,” I say quietly, crouching down but keeping some space between us. “I’m Mr. Doherty, from the police. Do you remember me?”
“Yes,” the older boy says. There’s a flicker of relief in his eyes. “Where’s Mom?”
I freeze, caught off guard. He knows—I can see it. But how the hell do you tell a seven-year-old something like this?
I spot a door that leads into the backyard.
“How about we go outside?” I say, nodding toward it. “We’ll wait there, okay?”
The older boy nods, a little unsure.
“What’s your name?” I ask, remembering one of them is Jamie and the other’s Colin—but not which is which.
“Jamie,” he says. “And this is Colin.” He points at his brother.
“Great,” I say, holding my hands out to them. “Let’s go, alright?”
Jamie crawls out from under the table, guiding Colin with him. Then he reaches out—one hand to his brother, the other to me. I walk them toward the door and open it. A blast of cold air hits me—and I realize the kids aren’t dressed for winter.
I shrug off my jacket and wrap it around them both, pulling it close.
We step outside together, moving carefully toward the front yard.
That’s when I hear it—the rising wail of police sirens, the low hum of an ambulance.
Relief crashes over me, the sharp breeze clearing the heavy, suffocating smell of blood from my nose. Soon, three police cars and an ambulance pull up outside the gate, their lights flashing across the street.
I spot Willand, Gordon, and Crowley getting out of one car, with a few more officers and the CSI team stepping out of the others.
A moment later, the gate swings open, and they spill into the yard.
Willand reaches me first but slows when he sees the kids.
He glances at Crowley. “We need to get them out of here. Take them to my car?”
“Yeah,” she says, stepping closer.
“Hello there,” she says, crouching down a little. “I’m Officer Crowley. Want to come see my cool police car?”
She reaches for Colin first, scooping him up easily. He curls against her without a sound.
When she reaches for Jamie, though, he tightens his grip on my hand, refusing to let go.
Crowley hesitates, looking to me.
“It’s okay,” I say quietly, giving Jamie’s hand a squeeze. “Don’t be scared.”
Jamie stares up at me, wide-eyed, trembling.
“She’s a police officer,” I say, nodding at the badge on Crowley’s chest. “She’s here to help.”
“Okay,” Jamie says, but he doesn’t let go of my hand right away.
He looks at Crowley for a beat, then loosens his grip just enough for me to pass his hand into hers.
She gives me an unreadable look, then leads the boys toward the car.
But as they go, Jamie keeps glancing back at me over his shoulder.
My chest aches, knowing these kids lost both their parents in a week. God knows what’ll happen to them now. I just hope they have family left who can take them in.
“Where’s Xavier?” Willand asks, pulling me back to the moment.
I nod toward the house. “Inside.”
“Let’s go,” Willand says, motioning for the officers and the CSI team to follow. I fall in with them—I don’t want Xavier to face this alone.
When we step into the living room, I find him right away—standing where I left him, stiff and pale, his arms still awkwardly held away from his sides.
He looks up when the room fills with people but doesn’t move, just stands there like he’s part of the crime scene now, not a person anymore—just another piece of evidence.
The cops and the CSI team move through the room, photographing, tagging evidence, scribbling notes.
Willand crosses to Xavier, his eyes catching on the blood soaking Xavier’s shirt.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, voice tight.
“No,” Xavier says, jaw set, his gaze locking on Willand for a beat—then flicking to me.
Willand follows his glance but looks past me, at Mrs. Bridge’s body, his face hardening.
“Tell me what happened,” he says, turning back to Xavier. “From the start.”
Xavier reluctantly tears his gaze from mine and starts telling the story from the beginning—the same way he told it to me, only now calm, almost detached, recounting the events in order.
Willand asks questions, and I listen without really hearing, my eyes drifting over the cops and CSI techs as they work the scene.
After a while, Willand moves off to talk to Gordon and the others, and two CSI techs come over to photograph Xavier’s clothes. I watch as they snap pictures from different angles, giving him quiet instructions—hold his arms out, turn this way, that way.
Xavier follows them without a word, and I just stand there, trying to give him whatever silent support I can.