Page 53 of Little Stolen Memories

I ignored his query and said, “I’m here because I’d like to ask you a few questions?”

He leaned against the doorway, blinking at me but saying nothing. It was possible getting him to play ball might prove to be harder than I thought.

I softened my approach and tried again.

“They’re routine questions,” I said. “I’ve been trying to talk to anyone and everyone who knew your classmates around the time the murders occurred.”

A moment of silence, and then, “The police suspected me of the murders. They pegged me as one of their main suspects.”

“I know.”

“Then you understand why I’m leery to speak to anyone.”

“I’ve looked over the file. You had an alibi the night the teens were murdered. Your father said you were with him all night.”

“I always thought the police didn’t believe him, even though this is supposed to be a country where people are innocent until proven guilty. And yet, sometimes the cops seem sure of a person’s guilt long before the case goes to court.”

“We all form opinions about each other. It’s human nature.”

Xander tipped his head to the side, staring at me as he said, “Don’t get me wrong. I’m a law-abiding citizen. I believe in the system. I believe in law enforcement too. But I can tell you one thing—when the long arm of the law is pointing a finger at you, it sure doesn’t feel good.”

“I’m not here to point fingers. I’m here to ask questions.”

“Yeah … well, I’ll tell you what I told them. I had nothing to do with the murders. My dad was telling the truth. We were together when the murders took place.”

He sounded truthful, but Xander’s father was no longer living.

There was no one to dispute his story.

I thought about the way Cora had described Xander to me, but the boy he was then was a lot different than the man he was now.

“If you’re innocent, there’s no reason not to talk to me about the case, right?”

He shrugged. “I suppose not. You seem like a nice lady.”

I was sure there were those who wouldn’t agree with his term of endearment, but I had my moments.

“So you’ll talk to me, then?” I asked.

Xander swished a hand through the air, swung the front door all the way open, and said, “Come on in.”

I followed him down a hallway. Staggered along the walls on both sides were a series of photos in white wooden frames. Several of the photos were of a little girl at various stages in her life. First as a baby, then a toddler, then a child. In the most recent one, she looked to be around twelve years old. In the center of the wall was a photo that was much larger than the rest. In it, Xander was smiling for the camera, standing next to a woman and that same little girl.

Was the woman his wife, and the child his child?

I’d know soon enough.

We entered a sitting room, and Xander gestured for me to take a seat on a black leather sofa. He sat across from me in a chair, folding his hands on top of each other as he waited for me to say something.

I started off easy.

“The photo of you in the hallway,” I said. “Are the other two in the picture your wife and daughter?”

Xander cleared his throat, his attention switching from me to a large, leaf-shaped tray, filled with fake fruit, resting on the coffee table between us.

“My wife and daughter, yes. My wife … she … ahh, she died last year in a car accident. This weekend marks a year since she left us.”

I recalled an incident I remembered seeing on the news a year before. A woman had died after a drunk driver ran a red light, plowing right through the front of her car. Was his wife the one who’d died that night?

---