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“You seem to know your way around,” I observe, grateful for the water. Not so much for the extra sting, it adds to my throat, but after a few sips, I feel better for it.
“I’ve been waiting here for you, Professor Sexton,” he says in an accusing tone, knitting his brow and folding his lips in.
A man who has a lot to say but is holding back.
“Oh?” I ask absently, reminding myself not to give away the fact I have no idea what time it is, let alone what day.
“Yeah,” he says briskly, as he remains standing and hooks his thumbs into his belt.
I can see his gun holster, but he’s not trying to show it off.
He sort of rocks slowly, from his heels to the balls of his feet.
His cheap leather shoes squeak and he shifts his mouth in deep thought as he studies me.
His eyes narrowing on mine.
“Now, Profess- Xander,” he says, bringing back his friendly voice. “I don’t have a warrant to demand this of you, yet. But…” he sucks some air in through his teeth.
I raise both brows and ask, “But?”
“I’d like to see your back if I may,” he says pointedly, leaning forward as if expecting me to protest or tell him to go to hell.
“My…back?” I ask, just to be sure that’s what he said.
He nods. “Yes, Sir. Your back. Now if I could, or we can get a court order and have a doctor come out, or down at the station,” he adds ominously.
I reply by lifting my sweater, noting the detective’s eyes widen somewhat as I ease myself up off the couch.
I casually turn away from him, giving him a view of my back.
“That’s my back,” I explain, hearing him take a seat behind me. “Can I?” I say.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry, Professor. Sorry to trouble you with that,” he murmurs, sounding like a beaten man.
I turn around and resuming my own seat I ask him what all this is about.
Eager to get to the part where I can see Gillian, or at least find out where she is.
If her dad is here, it can only mean trouble. But I’m here now too, and I’m here for good.
Gillian and me.
But we’ll get to that part.
“Look, Detective. What’s all this about,” I finally ask boldly, wishing that if he had a point that he’d come to it.
He runs his hands over his face and stands again, moving over to one of my desks, where I can see now there’s a stack of large zip lock bags marked ‘evidence’.
“I was hoping you could explain that to me, Professor,” he says, holding up a bag with what looks like my old shirt in it.
“This was in the sports bag in the trunk of your car. Eyewitness and DNA tests confirm it is indeed your shirt, worn on the day of Saturday the fifteenth of this month.”
I watch him speak, interested.
“You found a shirt in my car,” I remark sounding uninterested.
“Yes, Sir I did!” he shouts, moving over towards me, shaking it like a rag doll in front of my eyes.
“A fucking shirt with fifteen bullet holes in it that match the number fired from a gun recovered at a crime scene. Further police eyewitness accounts tell me you were holding… shielding my only daughter with your body from god damned gunfire at the same crime scene. And here you are today in front of me without a god damned scratch on you,” he roars, his voice finally breaking with emotion.
His heavy breathing is the only sound in a long silence that follows.
“Ah!” I finally say aloud. “That shirt.”
Chapter Twenty
Xander
Mike Parker wants all the answers, and we’re only a few minutes in when he can see it’s just not that simple.
“I could tell you I was wearing a vest under the shirt,” I offer. “The night of the shooting.”
“Then where’s the vest?” he retorts.
I only shrug in reply.
And so it could go on, but I’m done with it all. I’ve told Xander One that, and here I am, back home.
My proper home, where I belong. With Gillian.
“Where’s Gillian,” I ask her dad. Noting the pained expression he gets when I say her name.
“She’s at the Patterson’s.” He humphs to himself. “I’ve been trying to tell myself I’d come down here, take her home. Even with all this, I thought I could still do that,” he muses aloud.
“Except?” I ask.
“Except I believe her when she tells me she loves you. And the fact I came here to wait for you to break your nose for fooling around with my daughter,” he laughs softly to himself.
“And?” I ask, wondering aloud myself if he still will.
“I don’t think I could even reach your nose let alone break it,” he concedes.
“I do love Gillian,” I tell him. “More than the words or the actions,” I add, making him wince again.
