“What's wrong?” Dean asks.
“Nothing,” Xavier says. “I'm just not used to having so many options. It's been a long time since I've just been able to pick something to eat.”
“Isn't that a good thing?” I ask. “Don't you like being able to choose?”
“You have to understand,” he says. “It's like having a box of markers. The rest of the world has four. Maybe eight. I have fifty. It's easy to decide when only one option fits. It's much harder when so many could work. I don’t know what color fits best when I have so many. I don’t know what to choose.”
“So, don't,” Dean offers. “Don't choose. We will take you to every place you want to go and get you everything that sounds good.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “We'll get a little bit of everything and have a giant celebratory banquet.”
Xavier smiles. “I'd like that.”
When we get to the row of restaurants that stretches down one of the biggest streets of town, I park so we can walk from option to option. I notice Xavier staring at people as we pass by them.
“What's fascinating you so much?” I ask. “The clothes?”
“They're talking to themselves,” Xavier says.
I look at the group that just passed him by and notice one of them with a phone in his hand and a wireless earbud tucked into one ear.
“No,” I say. “He has a headset on. He's talking on the phone.”
“Oh,” he says with a note of disappointment in his voice.
I laugh. “They had those headsets before you went into prison. Don't you remember them?"
"Not really," he shrugs. "I guess I didn't pay that much attention to people. I rarely used my phone. I lost it a lot. Didn’t need it for much. If Andrew couldn't get in touch with me, he just came to my house."
He stops, and I see a look of worry flash over his face.
"What?" Dean asks.
"My house. What happened to it?"
"It's fine," Dean says. "I talked to the courts and your attorney from before you went in. The trust you set up has been maintaining the house. Your bank accounts are fully accessible. You can go home."
A smile nudges the corners of his mouth up just slightly, as if he is almost afraid to show the emotion he is feeling.
"Home," he says softly, the word sounding as if he hasn't said it in a long time and is trying it out.
"Come on," I say, heading for the door of the first restaurant. I hold the door open for him, and as he walks past, a thought occurs to me. "Xavier, you didn't tell me. What snack did you choose? So you weren't feeling like Pop Rocks?"
"A Swiss Roll," he grins. "Solid and reliable on the outside, and no one can see what's inside. With a nice swirl."
He follows Dean the rest of the way inside.
I give a sharp nod. And there you go.
Chapter Twelve
The three of us pile into my hotel room to eat the massive spread of food we picked out. Dean will take Xavier back to his house tonight and give him a chance to decide if he really wants to stay there. He seems to be genuinely looking forward to going home, but I know there's a chance it won't feel right once he gets there.
After all, it's where Andrew died. It's where his entire life went off the rails. And it's been sitting there for a decade waiting for him. The trust he set up before he reported for his sentence ensured the house would be taken care of and properly maintained. The trustee reassured Dean everything is in good shape, but it's still going to take some getting used to.
I've already reserved another room in the hotel, so there's somewhere available for him in case he doesn't feel comfortable.
It's good to see him starting to relax, sampling all the different foods he picked out, and relishing his ability to pick up the TV remote and change the channel at will. We’re finishing up when I notice my phone flashing with a new text message. I must not have heard the alert. Wiping my hand on a napkin to get the sticky apricot sauce I put on my spring rolls off, I then pick up the phone.
As soon as I read the message, I'm on my feet.
“What is it?” Dean asks. “Is something wrong?”
I shake my head, forcing the last bite of food down my throat as fast as I can so I can talk.
“No. Not wrong at all. The search warrant went through. I can get back into the temple,” I say.
“Let's go,” Dean says.
“You'll have to stay here,” I tell Xavier.
“Why?” he asks. “I want to see it.”
“I know that,” I say. “But you're not in law enforcement. Dean is a private investigator, but he was hired by Detective White as a consultant for the case.”
“I've waited so long to see that place,” he says, anger bubbling just below the surface of his voice. “I only ever saw through other people's eyes. I could only see what Andrew saw. Sterling, Graham Nelson. I only knew what their eyes would show me; I can't do that anymore. I need to see for myself.”
He's getting anxious, but there's nothing I can do. It was already a challenge to get the search warrant. I can't compromise it by bringing in not only a civilian but someone directly involved in the case. Not until I run it by Creagan and get permission.
“I will take pictures. I can video call you,” I say. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how ridiculous they are. “No, I can't.”
“He doesn't have a phone,” Dean says. “That's something we have to fix, and we've got to get you out of that suit. You can't be comfortable just hanging out like that. Give me just a minute.”
He leaves the room, and Xavier stares at me. It's uncomfortable, and yet at the same time, I don't
