CHAPTER 16. FLASH ROYAL
The ride home is all nerves and staring at my phone, torn between texting Xavier to demand answers and holding out for the stupid hope that he’ll text me first. That he’ll say something. I’m not even sure what I want to hear—just that he’s heading home, maybe. That he’s not done with me.
Outside, the gray sky blurs behind the murky taxi window, and I feel sick with how much this hurts. It makes no sense. Nothing really happened. And even if he is mad about Fred, I can’t see him holding onto it. That’s not Xavier. At least…it hasn’t been.
His moods blow over as fast as they hit, and the longest we’ve gone without talking was maybe two days. The longest we’ve ever been apart was that one day he got into Rishetor’s. So there’s no real reason to feel this kind of crushing, irrational dread.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself—but the feeling sticks. Like something’s gone wrong and I just don’t know what yet.
I think about texting Monica—she’d probably have something wise to say that would calm me down. But I’m not sure my pride can handle admitting just how unhinged I get over Xavier. Yesterday I was happy, practically giddy. Now I’m spiraling. So I shelve the idea.
When the taxi’s just a couple minutes from Hickory Road, it hits me—I can’t go home. Not yet. So I stop the driver, feeling like I’m in some cliché drama, and say, “Actually—turn around.”
***
It’s not Xavier I’m going after—though he’s in the back of my mind the entire ride to The Chronicle.
I’m going after Fred. And with every minute that passes, the sick feeling in my gut only gets worse.
He pretended to bump into me like it was some harmless coincidence—but if he really was the one who bugged me while I was blackout drunk, then none of it was chance.
God, the thought that I brought that bastard into our apartment—our home—makes my skin crawl. What if he bugged the place? If he did, there’s a good chance the break-in will be in the papers today or tomorrow.
Xavier was right all along. As much as he tends to be wary of people in general, his gut is rarely wrong. I should’ve trusted that—shouldn’t have dismissed it as just his neurodivergent intolerance for loud, pushy types.
The cab stops right in front of the building where Fred brought us last time, pretending he was shielding us from the press.
I get out, phone already in hand, and dial his number as I head toward the entrance.
I stop outside, waiting for him to pick up—but he doesn’t.
After a few rings, I hang up and push the door open.
The woman at the reception desk greets me with a bright smile.
“Welcome to The Chronicle. Are you here to see someone?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to keep my voice polite and not let the anger bleed through. “Fred Collins. Is he in today?”
“Let me check,” she says, still smiling as she picks up the phone. “What’s your name?”
“Newt Doherty.”
While she dials, I just stand there, not even thinking about what I’m going to say to him. I’ll improvise—whatever comes out, comes out.
I’m deep in my head when her voice cuts through. “Sir?”
I blink.
“He’s in. Third floor. Here’s your badge.”
I take it and head for the elevators, anger settling back in my veins as if it never left. The ride up is agonizing—every second stretching too long, my thoughts too loud.
When the elevator doors open on the third floor, I step out, push through the glass doors, and walk past the guard into the open-plan office, where white cubicles stretch along the windowed wall.
I hear the guard behind me—”Sir, I need to see your guest badge”—but I don’t slow down.
Because there he is.
Fred Collins.
Leaning on someone’s cubicle, coffee in hand, grin on his face.
I move toward him without thinking. The guard is still calling after me, but his voice fades.
Fred turns when I’m close—and has the audacity to smile.
“Hey there, Newty,” he says. “That’s a surprise. What brings you here?”
There’s half a second before I reach him when his smile falters—like he knows what’s coming. I don’t hit him. I just step into his space and shove him back against the cubicle wall. It’s not violent, but I’m close, hand pressed to his chest, leaving him no room to move.
Fred lets out a panicked little noise, like I’ve pulled a gun on him.
“Hey!” he squeaks, hands flying up in defense. “What happened?”
“You tell me,” I say, pulling my hand back but not stepping away. We’re still inches apart.
“What’s going on here, guys?” says a woman standing up from one of the cubicles—a journalist, probably.
I don’t answer. All my focus is on Fred, who’s glancing around in a quiet panic, like he’s hoping someone will step in and save him.
“You bugged me the night we went drinking,” I say through clenched teeth. And when Fred meets my eyes, I know I’m right. There’s a flicker of guilt before he looks away.
“Let’s talk,” he says quickly, but his gaze flicks past me—just before a heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
“Sir, you need to leave,” the guard says, voice firm. “Or I’ll have to call the police.”
I don’t even look at him. My eyes stay on Fred.
“Yes, let’s talk,” I say, daring him to handle this face to face instead of hiding behind a security guard. “Outside.”
Fred nods, and only then do I step back.
“It’s fine,” he tells the guard. “Just a misunderstanding.” Then he heads toward the elevators, and I follow, feeling the weight of every stare in the room trailing behind us.
I didn’t plan to cause a scene. But after the fight with Xavier—and honestly, the whole damn week—I don’t have any patience left. Just anger.
And I can’t say I regret it.
We step into the elevator without a word. I glance at Fred, ready to start something—but then the guard steps in after us. He catches my eye with a look that says he’s just waiting for a reason to throw me out.
I don’t give him one. We ride down in silence, the three of us, like he’s the prison guard escorting us out for yard time.
At reception, I hand over my guest badge. The guard shoots me one last look, clearly meaning: don’t come back. I ignore it and keep walking, right behind Fred, who already looks like he’s resigned to whatever’s coming.
As we step out onto the porch, finally alone, Fred turns to me and says quickly, “I can explain.”
“Yeah, you better,” I say, crossing my arms. “So it wasn’t an accident? Us bumping into each other that night?”
Fred meets my eyes, but it’s clear it’s the last thing he wants to do.
“It was,” he says. “I swear to God, it was.”
“And you just happened to have a bug on you?” I say, voice sharp with sarcasm. “Start telling the truth, or we’re going to the police.”
Fred sighs, frustrated, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Okay,” he says, shoulders sagging. “It wasn’t a complete coincidence. But I needed the money. You know how many kids I have, Newt—my journalist salary barely covers rent.”
“Right,” I say, my mouth pulling into a bitter twist. “So you decided to blow up a massive story about your old friend and cash in?”
“I swear, I thought it was just some dumb prank at first,” Fred says, his voice tightening. “He offered me money to plant the bug—basically dared me to—and I said yes. I didn’t think it’d turn into—”
“He? Who?” I cut in, frowning, my pulse already picking up again. “Who offered you money?”
“Bernard,” he says.
“Bernard?” My mouth goes dry. “Bernard Nimoy?”
Fred blinks. “Wait—you didn’t know? This was all his idea.”
“What…” I stare at him, completely thrown. For a second it feels like maybe I’m dreaming, or losing blood, or both. “Why the hell would Bernard make up a story about Xavier and me? We hadn’t even met him back then.”
“You had,” Fred says, and there’s a flicker of relief in his voice—like he thinks this new turn will take the heat off him.
“He’d been following you. Saw us bump into each other that night and trailed us into the bar.
Didn’t say a word at first—just waited until you were drunk and completely out of it before showing up. ”
I stare at him, trying to tell if he’s lying—but he doesn’t look like he is.
“What else do you know?” I ask, and Fred looks almost relieved, like spilling more might save him.
“He’s behind all of it,” he says quickly, eager to shift the blame. “He paid me to stay quiet when I figured out he was the one who leaked the story to The Weekend Herald…”
A chill creeps up my spine. Could that really have been Bernard’s plan?
“Why?” I ask. “Why would he do that?”
Fred shrugs. “I’ve got no idea.”
I start to turn back toward the building, but he stops me, like he already knows what I’m thinking.
“He’s gone for the day. He left twenty minutes ago.”
I don’t answer. Just pull out my phone and head down the steps toward the road, dialing Xavier. My heart’s pounding, and there’s this noise in my head I can’t shut out—a theory starting to come together, not fully there yet.
The line keeps ringing, but he doesn’t pick up. I text him: Call me.
If I can’t put it all together, Xavier will. If I can find him.
My pulse is so loud it drowns everything else out as I order a cab and wait by the curb.
Why would Bernard care about Xavier and me? He’s a political journalist. What would he even want from us? None of it makes sense.
Could Fred be lying? Sure. But it didn’t feel like he was.
When the taxi pulls up, I get in, just wanting to get home and see Xavier there—maybe asleep on the couch, or sitting in the kitchen with his laptop. But the knot in my stomach says I won’t be that lucky.
The ride takes about twenty minutes. When I finally get home, I’m relieved not to see any journalists hanging around the door. I head upstairs, hoping Xavier’s inside—but when I try the key, it doesn’t fit.
I blink, confused—then remember Mr. Waverly said something about changing the lock while we were gone.
I hurry back down and knock on the Waverlys’ door. Mrs. Waverly answers a moment later.
“Hi, Mrs. Waverly,” I say, trying to keep my nerves in check.