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Mr. Lott’s brows shot up. “Alive? What did you do?”
Xavier glanced at Carlos, then back at Mr. Lott. “I’m not sure.”
Lott frowned, but nodded. “All right, then. We’ll go by your house and check. If he’s still there in any capacity, we’ll call the cops on an intruder. If not, you can pack a bag. And then we’ll go talk to your mother.”
Carlos relaxed. “That sounds like a good plan. I like that his mama is in the loop.”
Xavier nodded. “Me, too. Who was that guy, Mr. Lott? What does he want with me?”
Although Xavier already knew the answer to the second question. He wants to kill me.
“I don’t know who he was,” Mr. Lott answered, and he seemed sincere. “But you know why he wants you.”
“Because he saw a murder,” Carlos whispered.
Mr. Lott met Xavier’s gaze, steady and kind. “It’s all right, son. We’ll figure this out. You were important to Rocky, and he was like a brother to me.”
Carlos put his arm around Xavier’s shoulders. “Where he goes, I go. He’s like a brother to me, too.”
Mr. Lott gave them a nod. “I would be surprised if you didn’t. How would you like to do this, Xavier? We can go to your house first or talk to your mother first. Your call.”
“My house first. I need to know what to tell my mama to expect.”
Manny spoke up. “Is it really safe to go to Xavier’s place? What if that guy is still there and he’s alive? He tried to kill these guys. He’s not going to just give up.”
Xavier gave Manny a grateful look. “I’ve got a—” He stopped himself before he said gun. Not that it was a huge deal to be carrying in Texas. Texans didn’t even need a license to carry anymore, but he didn’t want to announce his gun to the whole world. “I’m prepared.”
Manny’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know about this, X.”
“I’m prepared as well,” the lawyer said quietly. “Would you prefer he call the cops?”
Manny blew out a breath. “No, sir. But I still don’t like this. At all.”
Carlos looked undecided. “We stay together.”
“Together,” Xavier echoed, praying that he was doing the right thing.
Mid-City, New Orleans, Louisiana
TUESDAY, JULY 26, 7:15 A.M.
Coffee.Molly had made coffee, bless her.
Gabe opened his eyes to darkness, as he did every day, thanks to the miracle of room-darkening window shades. He normally didn’t get home from the Choux until two in the morning and had learned early on that the east-facing window in his bedroom was not his friend.
But coffee was his friend, especially at—He squinted at the clock on his nightstand. Shit. Seven a.m.? He never woke up at seven a.m.
You’ve never hired a PI to investigate your father’s murder, either.He sat up in bed, scrubbing his palms over his face, trying to wake up. He’d gone to sleep sometime around three, unable to keep his eyes open another moment longer. But Molly had still been working then, still organizing his father’s papers.
He wondered if she’d gone to sleep at all.
Of course, it could be Burke making the coffee. He still hadn’t arrived as of three a.m., staying at his father’s house to make sure the sheriffs did their jobs correctly. But Burke hadn’t expected to find any prints. If the intruders had been smart enough to fake his father’s suicide, they probably had worn gloves.
Still, one could hope.
Gabe pulled on the sleep pants from the night before—sans price tag—and made his way to the kitchen, but stopped just shy of the archway when he heard worry in Burke’s voice.
“Are you sure?” Burke asked insistently.
