Page 45 of Xavier

Xavier was there on the beach the night of the bonfire. The night that someone tried to kidnap me. He warned me it wasn’t safe to be alone.

How did he know?

Xavier was there almost immediately after the shooting. He knew I was inside the restaurant. He said it was safe for me to come out.

How did he know I was inside? How did he know it was safe for me to come out of my hiding spot?

He said he needed me to be okay. Why? Why did he need me to be okay?

All these questions swirl around in my mind, making me dizzy. I need these questions to be answered.

I need to know what Xavier knows about all of this and why he always seems to be in the right place at the right time.

That man is always shrouded in mystery. From his abrupt arrival to town, to his every movement.

My gaze roams over the crowd trying to find him, but he’s lost in a sea of people.

I push all thoughts and questions of Xavier to the back of my mind and try to focus on what Dad is saying.

He’s moved on from the murder and is now discussing storm clean up.

“Do we have any other dire situations that need to be handled first besides getting tarps on the roofs that need them and trees cut up?”

No one speaks for several moments. I narrow my eyebrows and gaze at the crowd. Someone must need help. There’s no way we got hit with a category three hurricane and no one needs help cleaning up or repairing the damage.

I stand up and make my way to the podium. Dad moves over to allow me to stand behind the podium.

“Don’t be afraid to ask for help. We are all here for one another. As a reminder, we have cases of water inside town hall for residents. If you need food, a bed, or clothing, please let us know. We want to help out anyway that we can.”

An older woman raises her hand. “The bottom floor of my house flooded, so I could use a hand removing all of my furniture before it molds.”

Dad scoots closer to me and whispers, “Thank you. You’re a natural.”

I sit back down and let him address the newest issue.

He clears his throat. “Where do you live?”

The woman glances around before saying, “I live near the old town hall. Down by the abandoned warehouses. We got hit harder down there and the roads are still flooded.”

Dad sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alright. Do we have any volunteers that have trucks and can help her once the water has receded enough to get in and out safely?”

Several business owners raise their hands and offer their services. A construction contractor offers to cut out the baseboards and drywall to prevent mold from forming.

The woman thanks them with tears in her eyes.

This is what I love to see. The community coming together to help out someone in need.

We didn’t have this in the big city.

Neighbors weren’t friendly. They didn’t greet you when they saw you in the mornings or in the afternoons.

They didn’t offer to keep an eye on your place while you worked late into the night. They didn’t want to accept freshly baked goods or make small talk to get to know you.

It’s the complete opposite down here. Everyone is welcoming and friendly. It’s like a breath of fresh air.

Commotion to my left gets my attention a second before I see the sun shining off the end of the gun barrel.

Time seems to slow as I glance up and meet the gaze of the man that shot and killed Everett.

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