Chapter 23

I showered and dressed in one of my favorite vintage skirts—black, knee-length, and pleated—a white, short-sleeved knit cardigan, and red and white, T-strap Mary Janes.

As I headed to the door, Luka circled around me, indicating his desire to be my sidekick for the day. I bent down, giving him a long scratch behind the ears as I said, “Not this time, buddy. Soon, I promise.”

He gave me a look that indicated he wasn’t pleased, and then he trotted off toward Giovanni. He stopped halfway and turned back as if giving me a chance to change my mind, and I almost did. But I expected today would be a busy one. Being my sidekick would have to wait.

Cayucos was a short twenty-minute drive from Cambria. As I made my way toward Xander’s place, I ran through questions I wanted to ask him when I saw him in person.

I wanted to know why he hadn’t turned Jackson and the others in after what they did to him.

I wanted to know why he’d prank-called some of the young women he went to school with back then.

And, I wanted to know why he’d cried at the funerals of high school kids who’d treated him as poorly as they had.

Had his tears been an act to make him seem innocent?

Or had his emotions been real?

I mulled those questions over as I turned onto his street.

Xander lived on a quiet cul-de-sac in a sage green house with a wooden exterior and a large back deck overlooking the ocean. The property alone had to have been worth a half-million dollars, I guessed, which suggested Xander had come a long way since high school.

I parked in the driveway behind a black Mercedes-Benz, walked to the front door, pressed the doorbell, and waited. From inside the house, I heard music playing. Blues music by the sounds of it.

A tall, broad-shouldered, brown-haired man answered the door, whistling to the tune of B.B. King’s “The Thrill is Gone.” He was barefoot and dressed in a black T-shirt and black pants without a belt, which caused his pants to sag around his waist.

The man smiled at me and said, “Can I help you?”

“Are you Xander Thornton?” I asked.

“I sure am. Who might you be?”

“My name’s Georgiana Germaine. I’m a private investigator, and I am looking into a series of cold-case murders—murders I’m sure you’ll remember.”

Xander ran a hand along his chin. “Lemme guess. You’re talking about the murders out at Millie Callahan’s cabin.”

“I am.”

“I heard Cora was back in town. Is it true?”

The comment was said in a matter-of-fact manner, like he didn’t mind me knowing he was aware of her return. I wondered if he’d come to regret making such a comment after I started questioning him.

“What makes you think Cora has returned home?” I asked.

“A friend of mine told me, one of our old classmates. He saw Cora at the grocery store a couple of days back. Said he didn’t recognize her at first, but when he got a bit closer, he was sure it was Cora all right. He tried to strike up a conversation, but she didn’t seem to have any interest, and she walked away while he was still talking.”

“I wonder why.”

“I wonder why myself. She was always a bit skittish. Suppose some things never change. If you’re a private investigator, I’m guessing someone hired you to investigate the murders. Mind telling me who?”

I did mind.

I minded a lot.

It was information I wasn’t comfortable sharing—not yet.

“There are people in Cambria who still think about what happened that night at the cabin,” I said. “People who are uncomfortable knowing the murders were never solved, and the murderer hasn’t faced justice.”

“People like Cora, for example?”

He’d smirked when he said it, like he already knew she had been the one to hire me.

“I’m not the only one trying to figure out what happened to those teens all those years ago,” I said. “The detectives who worked on the case back then have just been given the green light by the chief of police to reopen the investigation too.”

Xander crossed his arms and said, “Took them long enough. When the police realized they weren’t getting anywhere with the case, they just gave up.”

“They didn’t give up.”

“I don’t know what else you’d call it. Seems like they gave up to me.”

“What matters is we’re looking into it again now. And this time, the person responsible for those murders will get what’s coming to him.”

“What makes you so sure?”

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?

“I didn’t know about your wife,” I said. “Did she die after being hit by a drunk driver?”

“Sure did.” He bent his head toward the leaf-shaped tray. “My wife had a pottery studio. Made all kinds of things. Sold them at craft festivals. People came from all over America to buy the things she made.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to her,” I said.

“Yeah, me too. Feel lost without her, you know? She was the glue, the one person who made everything okay in this life. And she was a far better parent than I’ll ever be to our daughter, Lila. I’m doing my best, but most of the time, I feel like I’m treading water, like I’m not doing a good enough job. Nothing I’ll ever do can compare to how good of a parent my wife was when she was alive.”

What he’d just said spoke volumes about him as a person, and I found myself seeing him in a different light. He loved his wife, and he loved his daughter.

But time had a way of changing people.

Had it changed him too?

“The best parents I know feel the same way you’re feeling now,” I said. “I like to think it makes them better parents. Not because they’re perfect, but because they care enough to be better, the best version of themselves for their children.”

“I do the best I can.”

I crossed a leg over the other and said, “If you don’t mind me asking, how is your daughter coping with the loss of her mother?”

Xander blew out a long, heavy breath. “As best as she can. She’s quiet, doesn’t say a lot.”

“Was she always quiet?”

“Lila was a ball of wild energy before my wife passed away.”

“Perhaps she needs time to process what happened.”

“I get the impression you’re speaking from experience.”

“My niece lost her father a few years ago. She was seven at the time.”

Xander raised a brow. “How’s she doing now?”

“Better. Therapy helped her get through it. Do you have any help or support system around?”

“My brother is going through a divorce. I told him he could move in with us. Lila’s always been close to him, so having him here has been a positive change in her life.”

As he was talking, another man entered the room. He was dressed like Xander in a white T-shirt and black pants, but he was slenderer in build. In his hand he held a sandwich wrapped inside a paper towel. He looked at Xander and said, “Here’s the sandwich you asked me to make for?—”

The man’s attention shifted from Xander to me, and then he said, “Oh, hello.”

“Hello,” I said.

“This is my brother, Marcus, the one I was telling you about,” Xander said.

I introduced myself and explained the reason why I was there.

Marcus nodded and sat in a chair next to his brother, running a hand through his thick, black hair as he said, “I’ve often wondered if the investigation would ever start up again. Shame it was never solved.”

“Giorgiana’s confident she’ll find the person who’s responsible for the murders this time around,” Xander said.

“Don’t see why not,” Marcus said. “You ever seen Cold Case Files on TV? Been off the air for a while now, but it’s fascinating stuff. With all the advances in forensics, I bet a lot of cold cases could be solved. You been a private eye for a while?”

“I’ve been in law enforcement for a long time. I used to be a detective for the San Luis Obispo Police Department. I left the position a few years back and opened my own private investigation agency with a couple of friends. They’re also former detectives.”

“What made you decide to look into the case?” Marcus asked.

“I was hired.”

As much as I was enjoying the vigor of our conversation, my objective was to question Xander, not to be questioned myself.

“Marcus, are you older or younger than Xander?” I asked.

“I’m one year older.”

“You must have been in high school at the same time, then.”

“For a year,” Xander said. “I was a sophomore when my brother was a senior.”

The math wasn’t adding up, and then I remembered Cora saying Xander may have been held back a grade or two.

“You were in the eleventh grade when you moved to Cambria, right?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Xander said.

“Where did you live before?”

“Colorado. Our dad got laid off, and my uncle hired him as a salesperson in his furniture shop in town. We’ve been in the area ever since.”

“And your mother?”

Xander cleared his throat and said, “We don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“She took off with another guy when we were kids. We were raised by our father.”

Interesting.

I sat there a moment, thinking about Cora’s observation about Xander and mental illness. If he did suffer, he seemed normal now. Nothing in his demeanor suggested he struggled with mental issues—not yet, anyway.

“I’d like to talk about your classmates who died at the cabin,” I said.

“What about them?” Xander asked.

“I heard they picked on you at school.”

He shrugged and said, “It was high school. Everyone gets picked on or messed with at some point, don’t they? Even you, I bet.”

Not me.

I was as tough back then as I was now.

And I had brothers—older brothers—who were protective of their sisters.

No one dared to mess with me.

“You don’t seem affected by the way you were treated back then, Xander,” I said.

“I’m not. It’s not worth it to carry ill feelings about past experiences through your life. The only one you end up hurting is yourself.”

Wise words.

“He wasn’t picked on too much,” Marcus said. “Just a bit of harmless teasing among his peers, from what I can remember.”

A bit of harmless teasing?

When it came to bullying, we seemed to have differing opinions on what was harmless and what wasn’t.

“How is getting your brother drunk, tying him to a tree, and putting a sign around his neck suggesting he’s a stalker and a pervert harmless teasing?”

Xander’s face went red.

I couldn’t tell if it was because he was embarrassed, or because his anger had flared up, or both.

Marcus stared at me, his expression one of confusion.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Marcus said. “You must be mistaken. My brother was never tied to a tree in a park. If he was, I would have known about it.”

I looked at Xander and said, “Is there anything you want to say?”

“There’s nothing to say,” Marcus said, “except … you’ve got the wrong guy.”