The Talented Harry Styles | L.S

Chpt 11. Not if you care for me

Harry hadn't been able to sit still or relax the entire day.

He hadn't been thorough at all. Not nearly enough. The cursory body dump at the side of the road made Harry cringe and his stomach churn at the thought, but he couldn't go back and redo it. He didn't have the guts.

The guilt was eating him alive, a suffocating feeling swirling in his chest that wouldn't leave no matter how much he screamed for forgiveness. Now, he had to carry the burden of two murders.

All he could do was sit on the side of his king size bed, stare into the golden patterns on the white wall and hope that the Italian police was just as sloppy as himself. Of course, they wouldn't be.

It wouldn't be long until some of Freddie's rich snobby friends would report that he was missing, and some of his rich snobby friends would remember that Freddie was going to stop by at Harry's yesterday.

An urgent knocking on the door was what made Harry flinch out of the position he'd been in for the last two hours.

He pulled himself together and walked with steady steps to open the door.

He found himself face to face with Signora Buffi and two policemen.

"La polizia."

"Louis Tomlinson?" one of the officers asked in a strong Italian accent and extended his hand. He had thick black eyebrows, hair and a mustache. His hairline was receding, though, and there were streaks of grey in it.

"Yes," said Harry and put on a confused face.

The officer flashed him his badge. "Inspector Roverini. Can we come in?"

"Please," Harry said, but the two policemen had already brushed past him and walked into the parlor. Harry turned around and closed the door behind him.

Inspector Roverini explained the situation right away. Someone had found Freddie Miles, dead and dumped at the side of a road on the outskirts of Rome.

Harry had to sit down in the loveseat. He buried his face in his hands.

"It's a terrible shock, huh? What time did Signor Miles leave yesterday?" Inspector Roverini asked patiently and walked around him in slow circles.

"Uh," Harry squeezed his eyes shut as if he had to think really hard to recall yesterday. "I can't be certain exactly. Eight, nine. We'd both taken on far too many drinks," he spoke slowly. "But it was dark, it was certainly dark when I walked him to his car."

"So, he drove away, and you did what?"

"I went to bed. Freddie is a big man, but I'm in trouble a couple of drinks. I've been suffering all day." Harry looked up from his hands. "Who found him?"

Roverini had now walked over to the bust of Hadrian positioned atop the fireplace again. Harry held his breath, even if he had spent the rest of last night scrubbing it clean until he was a sweating mess.

"You understand I must ask you to stay in Rome, Signor Tomlinson."

"Yes, if it's going to help, certainly," Harry nodded.

"So, the Doctor, he has to make the, eh–" Roverini looked at the other policeman who was standing passively by a window, "come se dice?"

"Postmortem," assisted Harry quietly from his seat on the loveseat.

"Exactly." Roverini took a seat on the opposite couch. "But his, his first conclusion, was that Signor Miles was killed not later than seven o'clock yesterday evening."

Harry looked him up in the eye, "Well, he certainly wasn't dead when he drove away in his car."

Roverini nodded slowly. "No. You're right."