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“Huh,” Burke said.
“Huh,” Molly echoed.
Gabe leaned in to see Burke’s screen. “Fuck,” he whispered.
Because twenty-two years ago, Angel Xavier Morrow had been born in New Orleans.
“We need to find him and talk to him,” Molly said. “It might yield nothing, Gabe. Or it might yield something you don’t want to hear. Let me go to Houston by myself.” She didn’t expect him to agree, but figured it was worth a try. “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I’m going with you. I need to know the truth. If my father did make a trust for Xavier Morrow, I need to know. And I need to know why.”
Molly sighed. “I figured you’d say that. Let’s get on the road.”
I-10, East Texas
TUESDAY, JULY 26, 9:45 A.M.
“Can you tell him it’s urgent?” Xavier’s mother asked, on the phone with Le Petit Choux.
Apparently, Gabriel Hebert was not in the restaurant, nor had he been any of the four times his mother had called in the last hour.
Cicely sighed. “Thank you. I left my number in case he calls in. Do you still have it?” She waited a moment, then murmured, “You, too,” before ending the call.
“Maybe he’ll call you,” Willa Mae said from the driver’s seat, reaching across the console to pat his mother’s hand. “If a stranger had called me asking for one of my employees, I’d say the same thing. I’d refuse to say whether they were there or not, then take a number and contact the person myself. It’s a privacy thing, hon.”
“I know,” Cicely said. “It’s just so frustrating. Is that lawyer still behind us?”
Xavier looked up from the phone Carlos had loaned him, turning around from the captain’s chair in the middle to see the white BMW SUV trailing them, a little too close. “He’s still there.”
“That man’s kissin’ my back bumper,” Willa Mae groused. “I’d tan his hide if he were my man.”
Cicely chuckled. “He couldn’t handle you, Willa Mae, but I’d sure like to see him try.”
Willa Mae laughed. “Too true. You boys need a rest stop? Some cola or snacks?”
“No, ma’am, Miss Willa Mae,” Xavier said. His mother had bought them all waffles to go from the Waffle House, and they’d eaten their fill. “And Carlos and Manny are sound asleep.”
“No, I’m not,” Carlos muttered. “My ears are bleeding.”
Xavier choked a laugh into a cough. Except for when his mama had been calling Gabe Hebert’s restaurant, Willa Mae had been playing country music, of which Carlos was not a fan.
“I like it,” Manny said loudly.
Carlos’s head popped up, turning to the very back seat to stare at his brother. “You’re lying.”
Manny grinned. “Of course I’m lying,” he whispered. “But I’m polite and shit.”
Xavier rolled his eyes and resumed his search on Mr. Paul Lott. Once he’d been safely with his mother and her friend, he’d stopped to replay all the past day’s events in his mind, and one thing stuck out.
Lott’s voice had been different when they’d talked on the phone after Rocky had died. The man had sounded older. Less... New Orleans. Today his accent had been strong.
Xavier’s memory might not have been accurate. He’d been so overwhelmed with grief when Lott had called him to tell him that Rocky was dead. He might not be remembering right. But last night the man had glossed over his request to talk to Gabe Hebert, like he hadn’t even spoken. Which was annoying at best. Dangerous at worst.
Thus, he’d been searching for a photo of Lott. So far, he’d come up with nothing. Which was worrisome.
Of course, the man was older. Had to be forty at least. People that old didn’t always have a good grip on technology like websites and social media. Paul Lott seemed to fall into that group. But there had to be a photo of him somewhere. He was a person who existed. He had to have touched the internet somewhere.
Willa Mae switched the country station back on, singing along reasonably on-key. She did sing in the church choir, after all. His mother rubbed her temples when Willa Mae sang, though.
