Slow Burn (9 page)

This time, Ashley slowly eased her hand from
underneath his and placed it on her lap. A chill washed over her at
the loss of his warmth. Her gaze searched for a distraction.
Anything. The pictures came to her rescue.

“Anyway, on that day,” she continued, “I got
what I’d always wanted—a Nikon camera and a chance to celebrate my
birthday with my cousins. We were staying at Aunt Estelle’s home,
but almost all of my cousins were there. It was a beautiful party.”
She paused and smiled. “I didn’t know we were celebrating much more
than my birthday, until later. My parents had saved the best
present for last.”

As though reading her mind, Ron said,
“Carlyle House?”

“Yes.”

“An unusual gift for a child,” he
murmured.

“Not when you consider what it meant to me.
I’d spent the first fifteen years of my life traveling with my
parents and the band all over the world. Buying Carlyle House was
going to change all that. It signified stability, not that I knew
that at the time. I just knew my cousins would be thirty minutes
away and I could do things with them, have friends and sleepovers.
They told me about the papers they were signing that evening, their
plan to stop touring and start working with local talents.”

Slowly, she stroked the glossy prints, a
nostalgic smile on her lips. The shock of seeing the pictures was
now gone, but she still needed to know where they came from. “I
remember everything that happened before we left for the Carlyle
Club. My mother’s soft, floral scent.”
Oh, the memories, so
sweet I can see and smell them.
“Roses. She always smelled of
roses. The two of us were waltzing and singing the lyrics of a
ballad they’d produced, when my father joined in.” Her eyes misted
and she had to swallow past a knot in her throat to continue. “He
gave me a hug and a kiss after the song ended, called me his
precious. I was so happy I had to capture the moment. This is the
shot.” She tapped the first picture.

Ron scowled. “And the film?”

“It disappeared. My aunt told me it wasn’t in
the camera after the fire. I think I lost it that night.” A
thoughtful expression settled on her face. “At the time, I was too
confused to ask questions, but now I can’t help wondering who
removed the film and why.”

“Could you have dropped it?” Ron asked.

“Only if the camera’s cover was faulty, but
that would have exposed the film.” She rubbed her temples. A
headache was brewing there fast. “A lot of things happened that
night that still don’t make sense. I need to show you
something.”

She got up and worked her way through the
boxes on the floor to get to the huge metal box at the corner of
the room. Inside it were sheets of music, records, an old record
player, newspaper clippings about her parents, and family photo
albums. She opened a black leather case, pulled out a camera and
started to shake it.

“What are you doing?” Ron asked.

“Checking if the camera is defective.” She
repeatedly opened and shut the camera cover, as she walked back to
where she left him at the kitchen counter. The brand was the most
rugged and versatile mechanical camera ever made. Even if the film
had fallen, someone must have rewound it first. “The film couldn’t
have fallen out. Someone removed it.”

Ron went to stand beside her. “Are you
telling me this is the same camera you used ten years ago?”

“Yes.”

He indicated the camera. “May I?”

Ashley gave it to him, then rested her elbows
on the counter, cupped her chin and studied him—his bold nose, the
arched eyebrows, the intense blue eyes that warmed up with mischief
but became cold in a beat. What was it about the man that made her
feel comfortable enough to discuss the past? Was it because they’d
both lost so much that night? It was true she thought he had a
calming presence, but underneath it all, he was edgy. It was that
edginess she found both exciting and unnerving.

Ron suddenly looked up and caught her
staring. Air lodged in her chest as she waited to see what he would
do next. Her heart thumped hard with excitement. As though he knew
the effect he had on her, he gave her a slow, killer smile. Heat
crept up her face, up her legs. This was insane. She couldn’t even
summon the willpower to look away. When he finally looked away,
Ashley released her breath in spurts. This attraction was beyond
her.

“It’s in pretty good shape for something that
old,” Ron said calmly. “Looks almost new.”

Ashley frowned. How could he be so calm when
she was still catching her breath? When she didn’t answer right
away, he threw a glance her way. The camera came to her rescue. Her
gaze shifted to it and stayed locked on it.
Concentrate.

The camera
did
look new, yet she’d had
it with her during the fire. She recalled the filth on her dress,
her hands….

Filth?

Her body jerked. Where did that come from?
The Carlyle Club was an exclusive club with world-class service at
the time of the fire, yet the word filth had crossed her mind. She
bit her lip and tried to concentrate, but the memory eluded
her.

She looked up and caught Ron’s gaze on her.
“I never used it after that night. I couldn’t bring myself to, so
my uncle bought me a new one instead, a different model.”
Filth
… What did it mean? “At least I now have the three
pictures I’d taken that night.”

Ron scowled. “Three? There are a total of six
pictures here.”

“Six? That’s strange.”

“Damn right it is.” They both reached for the
remaining pictures at the same time. “So you didn’t take
these?”

Ashley gave the pictures a sweeping glance.
The first one showed her parents in an opulently decorated room—an
office or a private sitting room, perhaps. Black, leather chairs,
bar stools around an ornate bar and musical motifs adorned the
walls. A vague memory flitted in her mind then disappeared, leaving
her unsettled. She tapped the picture. “Where’s this?”

Ron shot her a puzzled glance. “That was the
lounge in the basement. Don’t you remember?”

No, she didn’t. No matter how hard she stared
at it, the memory escaped her. Sighing with frustration, she moved
to the next picture. In it, her parents were with Ron’s mother and
three other men. From their animated faces, raised glasses and the
curling swirl of cigar smoke, they were celebrating.

Ashley pointed at the tall, gangly man in a
three-piece suit and dark-rimmed glasses. “That’s Jeremy Kirkland,
my parents’ attorney.” Now hers since her parents died. Uncle Jerry
hadn’t changed much in ten years. He still preferred striped suits
and dark-rimmed glasses. The only difference was his hair—he didn’t
have any now. “Who is the other man?”

“My mother’s attorney. Dave Hogan. He’s
retired now, lives on Orcas Island. And that’s my father.” Ron
pointed at the taller man dressed in all black. “He was there
briefly but left early. Now this one doesn’t make sense.”

Ashley studied the last picture. It was a
blurry face of a man taken at a close range. The only discernible
thing on the photograph was the gold studs on his ears. They’d
reflected the flash of the camera. A shiver raked her body for no
apparent reason.

“Why send this one? It’s impossible to
identify the man in the picture.”

“How can you tell it’s a man?”

Ashley shrugged. Her artistic eyes saw things
ordinary people didn’t. “The shape of his face, the jaw line and
even his lips are masculine.”

A scowl settled on Ron’s brow, as his gaze
shifted from the pictures to her. He opened his mouth to say
something and then appeared to change his mind. He went back to
frowning at the pictures. Finally, he looked up and said, “You said
you only shot the first three pictures, right? How can you explain
these last ones?”

She heard the suspicion in his voice and
couldn’t blame him. “I can’t. All I know is that I didn’t take
them.”
I think. No, I hope.

Ron’s gaze was steady on her face. “Maybe you
put the camera down and someone borrowed it.”

“Not likely.” She’d been too excited about it
to let anyone else touch it, which meant she did take the pictures.
The pictures were definitely from the same film. At fifteen, she
hadn’t been camera savvy. She hadn’t bothered to clean the lens
before taking the pictures, and a piece of string was in exactly
the same position in all the photographs. “Besides, my parents left
me upstairs with, uh, Sally…Sheila…the woman who ran the restaurant
upstairs. I can’t remember her name now.”

“Sherry McKinney,” Ron said.

“Yes, Sherry. I never left her side the
entire evening, never went to the basement or the club, which was
closed that evening.” She sounded like a parrot, which wasn’t far
from the truth. She’d just repeated the statement Sherry had told
her and her aunt. “Maybe I need to find Sherry and talk about what
happened that night.”

“Sherry died a month after the fire, Ashley.
Her car skidded on an icy road near the Tehachapi Mountains and
overturned.”

“Oh, no. How terrible.” Where did that leave
her? Talk to Nina Noble?
Yeah, she’ll be jumping over hot coals
to accommodate me.
Her lawyer Jeremy Kirkland was a surer bet.
The man treated her like the daughter he never had and would never
hide anything from her. Then there was the mysterious person who’d
sent the pictures to the Nobles.

Ashley leaned toward Ron. “I’d talk to the
person who sent these pictures, Ron.”

He nodded. “So would I. Unfortunately, we
don’t know who it is. Like I said, the pictures were left at our
gate along with a letter.”

“A letter? Can I see it?”

He shook his head, his eyes burning with an
intensity that had all her internal antennas on full alert. She
wasn’t surprised when he said, “Let’s leave that for another day.
We’ve covered enough today.”

Ashley’s eyes narrowed. “Ron, you’re not
being fair.”

“I know this hasn’t been pleasant.” He
stiffly stepped away from the counter. His entire attitude had
changed, become distant, colder.

“Let me decide how much I can take.” Ashley
straightened and faced him. What was in the letter that he didn’t
want her to see? She hated to do this, but there was no other
alternative. She thought about the pain of losing her parents and
tears pooled in the depth of her eyes. Then with just the right
pressure, she allowed huge drops to roll down her face. She noticed
the change in him. He became more edgy. Now for the kill.

“Please, Ron. I’m not going to rest until I
know what is in that letter. Since you’ve shown me the pictures,
why not just let me read the letter too.” Her voice shook with just
the right amount of distress. He scowled at her, as though trying
to decide if her tears were real or not. Jeez, who had made him so
distrustful of people? “Please.”

“Okay, okay.” He sounded exasperated. “Just
stop crying. Can’t take it.” He pulled out the letter and thrust it
in her hand.

“Thank you.” Ashley gave him a brief smile
and opened the letter. Some of the letters were big, others small
and several words were misspelled. Whoever sent notes like these
anymore? He could easily have typed it.

The first part leapt at her…not an accident.
The fire at the house wasn’t an accident. Her parents were murdered
and someone out there knew it. The last part had her catching her
breath, panic torpedoing through her. Her head jerked up, and her
gaze connected with Ron’s.

“Me? What does he mean I’ve the answers?” Her
voice came out squeaky.

“It’s possible you—”

“Is he implying I had something to do with
the fire?” she finished, cutting Ron off.

He watched her with a steady gaze, his
expression guarded. “Why would you think that?”

Because she couldn’t recall a thing. What if
she’d started it? Was that why she’d blocked the memories? Had she
killed her parents? A moan escaped her.

Ron grabbed her arms and shook her. “Hey.
Stop. The letter implies you witnessed something, not started the
fire.”

“You don’t know that.” A surge of anger went
through her at her helplessness. She wrenched her arms free and
gripped her head. “You don’t know that, and neither do I.”

Ron scowled. “What do you mean neither do
you? You were there, weren’t you?” He waited for her to respond.
“Weren’t you?” he asked, again, when she didn’t answer.

She lifted her head to whisper, “Yes, I was
there. But,” she shook her head, “I don’t remember a thing.”

Ron’s eyes narrowed with confusion, then
widened as realization hit him. “You lost your memory?”

“Yes,” she continued through gritted teeth,
an attempt to stop her trembling chin and the tears threatening to
fall. She hated feeling like this, weak and helpless. “She lied to
me, Ron. She lied to me, to my aunt and uncle, to the police. She
lied to everyone. Why?”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “Who lied?”

“Sherry-the restaurant manager. She told them
that I never left her side. That I never went to the basement.” She
waved a hand toward the pictures. “Those pictures prove that I did.
I know what happened that night, but it’s…it’s….” She touched her
temple, her hands shaking so much she dropped them to her side and
made fists. “I can’t remember a thing.”

Having confessed, the need to run away washed
over her. She threw Ron a glance from the corner of her eye and
caught his stunned expression. His dark eyes were brimming with
questions.
Please, no more cross-examination.
Her tattered
emotions couldn’t take any more.

“You know what? You were right. This is not
the time to discuss this.” She took a deep breath to steady her
trembling voice. “Why don’t we finish this later, uh-mm, on
Saturday?”

She got up and walked to the area littered
with boxes and her childhood memorabilia. Dropping on her knees,
she started putting them back in the boxes. She waited to hear the
door open and close as Ron left, but all she heard was the blood
pounding past her ears.