CHAPTER 17. SCOOP #2
I sit there, my heart sunk, my brain buzzing with too much information it can’t wrap around.
There is too much evidence, too many scattered details that are impossible to piece together.
My thoughts are frantic, jumping from one clue to another, but to no avail.
I’m not Xavier—I’m not good with the chaos and can’t connect everything as quickly as he does.
I mentally return to our morning argument by the pub, the way Xavier acted weird, the way he put the distance between us right after the conversation with Selena.
We talked about Fred then—but was that just me jumping to conclusions?
Could Xavier have already figured out Nimoy was behind it all?
Had Xavier already connected Nimoy to Bridge’s murder—and just let me cling to the lie to protect me?
The moment the thought hits me—I know it’s true. Xavier must’ve gone to Nimoy right away. Was that why Nimoy left work early? To meet him?
I look at Willand, my hands shaking. I’m sure of it now—Xavier’s in real danger. I feel the blood drain from my face, light-headed all at once.
“Are you okay, Newt?” Willand asks, probably because I look like death. “Want some water?”
“You need to find Xavier,” I manage, my tongue heavy, like it doesn’t belong in my mouth. “I think he’s in danger.”
That’s all I get out before I have to gasp for air, a full-on panic attack crashing over me.
Thankfully, that’s enough for Willand—he just nods and pulls out his phone again to make a call. I sit there, my brain buzzing, burning, overheated. If I don’t do something—anything—right now, I’m going to pass out.
Think, Newt, I tell myself.
You’re a fucking detective.
THINK.
Where could they be? Where would Xavier and Nimoy meet? I have no idea. But I need to go.
I get up, and Willand—still holding the line—covers the mic with his hand. “Where are you going?” he asks, a trace of concern in his voice.
“I need to do something,” I say. “I can’t just sit here.”
He nods. “Alright. But wait—just a moment. There’s something I need to give you before you go.”
I want to run, but the urgency in his voice makes me pause. I blink, then nod.
“Okay. But please be quick.”
***
I rent a car at the corner by the police department—no taxi driver would agree to circle the same streets looking for God knows what.
As I pull onto the road, my brain’s still a mess of scattered thoughts.
I head toward Hickory Road—it’s the only place that comes to mind.
My phone is propped on my knee, and I tap the screen every few minutes, just in case I missed a notification.
But before I even get close to Hickory, an image flashes in my mind: that alley where Bridge was killed.
It’s the obvious place Xavier and Nimoy could meet—away from The Chronicle, away from their homes.
Quiet. Secluded. No one would see them there.
It’s just a random guess, but I’m already making a U-turn, my heart pounding like it knows I’m right, my intuition screaming at me for not thinking of it sooner.
Thankfully, despite the falling wet snow, the roads are empty, and it doesn’t take long to reach Bolton Gardens. By the time I get there, I’m sweating, my hands numb around the wheel, adrenaline pounding in my temples.
I leave the car parked on the street and take off toward the alley. Some part of me registers that I’m unarmed and have no idea what I’m walking into. But there’s no time to second-guess.
I have to find Xavier.
But the second I step into the alley, I see it’s empty. Am I too late? Or were they never here at all?
I move through it, pulse hammering in my throat, eyes scanning for anything—footprints, blood, any sign they were here.
But there’s nothing, just the same garbage bins, the same walls on both sides…
The earth tilts around me.
I close my eyes, and take a deep breath, thinking.
I try to imagine how it happened. Bridge returning home, walking down Bolton Gardens, turning into this alley…
Where was Nimoy at the time? Was he following him?
Was he already waiting for him here? But most importantly—how did he get here without showing up on the outside cameras? ..
Suddenly, my breath catches—my whole body shudders with realization.
I blink, opening my eyes. For a second, everything—the alley, the bins, the asphalt, the snow—blurs together in a dizzy mess.
And then it hits me.
I know how he did it.
The café. The damn back door of the café Bernard used to help us escape. He knew about it. He knew there was a way to slip into the alley unnoticed.
When he was following Bernard, he must’ve gone through the café and caught up with him here.
And then a second realization hits me: they must be there. If Xavier figured out how Bernard did it, he’d want to check it himself. And then—he’d offer to meet Bernard there.
They’re in the fucking café.
Going through the main entrance might be a mistake, so I head for the back instead, my heart pounding so hard it might kill me. My injured leg pulses with pain, screaming at me to stop—but I don’t care.
I pull the gate and it eases open, unlocked. The fact alone makes my breath catch, like a quiet warning. I step into the yard and move toward the café’s back entrance. My chest tightens as I reach for the handle. It gives, and the door swings open.
As soon as I step inside—I hear it: muffled voices, coming from the main room. Not the absent chatter of patrons having lunch; there’s tension in the conversation, and that’s when I know I was right.
I walk down the familiar corridor, past the bathrooms, stepping as quietly as I can.
When I cross the hallway and catch a glimpse of the dining area, my heart pounds in my ears, my eyes stinging as I see Xavier and Bernard, standing across from each other like they’re in a duel.
Xavier’s closer to me, hands raised. Bernard has a gun aimed straight at his chest.
My heart stops, panic flooding my senses.
For a moment, I think I might faint—my legs go weak, my head spins. But then adrenaline kicks in, cutting through the fear.
I barely stop myself from bursting into the room—but one wrong move could get Xavier shot, so I have to be careful. I step into the threshold, slowly, mentally cursing myself for not bringing a gun.
There are others inside too: a couple crouched behind the corner booth, two women hiding under one of the middle tables, and the waitress behind the bar—shaking, hands in the air, her face streaked with tears.
I look at Xavier. His face is pale, the circles under his eyes darker than before. He looks shaken, but he’s alive—and right now, nothing in the world matters more.
I take out my phone and type a message to Willand: Pond’s Café, Bolton Gardens, 8. HE’S ARMED. I pray to God he’ll get here soon.
“I didn’t plan for it to happen,” Bernard says, the gun trembling in his hand. He looks sick—paler than Xavier, his eyes dull, almost lifeless. “It’s not fair.”
Xavier lets out a bitter smirk. “Not fair,” he repeats, like it’s a bad joke. “The concept of fairness suggests you admit no power over your own life, Mr. Nimoy. That you’re not responsible for your actions—that they happen independently of you. But everything that led you here is your doing.”
“Shut up!” Bernard shouts, the gun in his hand shaking. “I needed money—I didn’t have a choice—”
“Let me guess,” Xavier cuts in. “You’re drowning in debt?”
Bernard just stares at him, stunned, the answer written all over his face. “I was desperate. I did everything I could to survive!” he yells, tears streaking down his cheeks.
“Well, you bribed other journalists,” Xavier replies, his voice void of empathy. “So you had money.”
“Not enough!” Bernard screams, his face flushed with rage. “This fucking society is built against human nature. It’s a goddamn capitalistic cage—designed to make us suffer for the rest of our lives!”
“Can’t disagree with that,” Xavier says with a dark smirk. “But you murdered someone, Bernard. That’s when you crossed the line.”
“He would’ve ratted me out to the police,” Bernard says, shaking. “Just when I was finally starting to do better—launch my career, make real money, through sweat and blood… I couldn’t let him ruin it all. It was either him or me.”
“What about Mrs. Bridge?” Xavier asks, his voice cold. “You left her bleeding on the floor in front of her children. Did she deserve to die too?”
Bernard sobs, swiping at the tears streaking down his face with a free hand. “I had no other choice,” he says, voice trembling. “I had no other choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” Xavier says evenly—and if I didn’t know him so well, I’d think he was completely unbothered. But I see the tightness in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He’s almost as shaken as Bernard. “Put the gun down, Bernard.”
“I can’t,” Bernard whispers, his voice barely audible, the gun trembling in his hand. “I can’t.”
“It’s already over. You’re in too deep.”
“I can still run,” Bernard says, shooting a quick glance at the door. “The police doesn’t even know I’m here.”
“Then do it,” Xavier says, voice calm. “Run.”
“I…I can’t leave witnesses.” His eyes flick to the waitress, to the people hiding under the tables—then finally land on Xavier.
“I hope you’re not planning to kill all these people,” Xavier says, a trace of darkness in his voice. “Let them go. You have me.”
Bernard just shakes his head. Then: “I knew you’d be trouble, Mr. Ormond. I knew it the moment I killed Bridge.”
“How did you know I’d be assigned the case?” Xavier asks—and for the first time, there’s real curiosity in his voice.
“I recognized Bridge,” Bernard says. “I handle crime news, remember? I knew he’d been robbed the week before. I knew Sam Willand hired you to investigate it. So I figured you’d be the one to handle the murder too.”
“Nice guess,” Xavier says, not without a trace of respect in his voice. “Did you also wiretap Willand’s phone or something?”
Bernard nods. “Not his phone. But I’ve had ears in his office for a while now.”
“And you spied on Newt and me too,” Xavier says calmly, like he’s placing the final piece of the puzzle. “You created that whole scandal around us and bribed other journalists—just to distract us?”
“Nice guess,” Bernard says, echoing Xavier’s own words. “I wish you hadn’t taken the case, Mr. Ormond. Your mind fascinates me, honestly.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m truly sorry I have to kill you.”
Then he raises the gun, aiming it straight at Xavier’s head.
Before I can think, my body moves on its own. I lift my hands and step into the room, shouting, “Bernard, don’t do it!” My voice is loud, pleading. I show him my hands and pray he won’t shoot me on the spot. “Please—just stop!”
Bernard sways, startled, and turns the gun on me. “Ah, Newt. There you are. Don’t do anything stupid, or I’ll shoot you both.”
“I’m not going to,” I say, raising my hands higher. “I’m unarmed.”
“Good,” Bernard mutters, swinging the gun back to Xavier—and that’s when I hear Xavier’s voice.
“Newt, get out of here.”
I glance at him for just a second—but in that instant, I catch his face. He’s pale, and there’s genuine fear in his eyes, laced with something that almost looks like betrayal.
He’s angry that I came. Even horrified.
But I’m not going anywhere.
“Bernard,” I say, “please put the gun down. I’m sure we can find another way.”
He smirks, wiping the last of his tears from his face, a look of grim certainty settling in. “I’m not an idiot,” he says. “I know there’s no other way. The great Partners-in-Crime duo has exposed me. I’m done. There’s no way out.”
My pulse spikes at his words. I silently pray Willand will get here soon—but it’s only been a few minutes since I sent the message.
“Bernard,” I say again, trying to think of anything that might buy us time, “you’re in charge here. So tell me what you want. Maybe we can help.”
“Do you think I’m a moron?!” Bernard shouts, his face twisting with rage, the gun snapping back toward me. “I know these police tricks—so shut up. Shut up!”
His face is scarlet, his eyes two dark, lifeless holes filled with fury. And just looking at him, I know—I don’t have time. He’s going to shoot.
I know he’s going to shoot.
That’s when Xavier takes a step toward me, like he feels it too.
It sets Bernard off. He sees Xavier move and instantly swings the gun toward him.
Time stops.
Then two things happen at once: I jump, throwing myself in front of Xavier as the shots ring out—three sharp pops in a row—each one slamming into my back as I grab hold of his shoulders.
His face, twisted in horror, is the last thing I see before the air tears from my lungs. The pain hits all at once—a single, burning burst through my spine as everything goes dark.
And then I’m falling.