CHAPTER 4

 

 

Ron tried not to flinch as the sting spread from his cheek down his neck. He had seen the slap coming, but he hadn’t tried to stop it. He deserved it. Truth be known, he had no idea what came over him to accuse her of something so debasing. “Ashley—”

“How dare you.” She was breathing hard, her ample chest heaving. “How dare you imply I would cheapen myself by offering my body to any man in exchange for a favor?” She stomped past him.

He grabbed her arm. “I apologize. What I said was uncalled for and rude. I’m sorry.”

“Quit manhandling me,” she snapped and attempted to wrench her arm free.

He let her go and raised his arms in surrender.

“Now get out.”

Ron released a sharp breath. This wasn’t what he’d planned. He needed her help, and being thrown out wasn’t a way to get it. From her flashing eyes, an apology wouldn’t suffice. He racked his brain for a quick solution. “I can get you Carlyle House, Ashley.”

A scathing laugh escaped her. “I don’t want it anymore.”

His gut tightened. “Why?”

“I changed my mind.”

She must have heard his mother and despite her earlier assertions, had no intention of asking for his help. In fact, her rigid body warned him to back off. He frowned. Or maybe this was an act to manipulate him, to make him feel sorry for her. Growing up around his mother and her actress friends had taught him to question women’s emotions. He knew it was wrong and often fought his response, but now…. Should he trust Ashley?

“We’ve nothing else to discuss,” she said.

And he had nothing to negotiate with. He shouldn’t have mentioned his investigation last week or jumped to conclusions when he saw her with Vaughn. Ron ignored her words and studied her angry expression. He saw through her bravado and anger to the pain he’d caused.

A sudden urge to take Ashley in his arms and offer her comfort came from nowhere. He wasn’t going there. He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans instead. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions and accused you of doing something unethical.”

She stared defiantly at him, her hazel eyes overly bright. He pulled his hands from his pockets and scrubbed his face, then studied her through narrowed eyes. Lord, the woman was maddening. Why couldn’t she accept anything gracefully?

“What did he want?” he asked.

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“I know.” The Doyles were ruthless bastards, and he had to know what they were up to. He swallowed his pride and added, “Please. I need to know.”

Ashley sighed, her shoulders sagging. “I was concerned after I heard your mother’s words and realized she was still hurting from what happened ten years ago. I pulled over and was thinking of going back to your place to tell you I’d help with the investigation when Vaughn’s limo stopped. I didn’t know who he was. He told me his name was Vaughn Ricks, not Doyle. He thought I was having car trouble. I had no idea that I was outside the Doyle residence.”

“I didn’t know he purchased a home around there until the security guard told me. My mother was concerned. The Doyles are not the nicest of people.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that. Vaughn was kind enough to offer me a hand when he thought I needed it.”

The green monster in him reared its head. “Vaughn Doyle is a ruthless bastard, Ashley. Just like his father.”

She stepped away from him. “Not from where I’m standing. He was a perfect gentleman.”

While he was not, Ron thought with a sigh. She didn’t have to say it. He hated explaining himself, but in this case, he owed her that much. “Okay, my behavior this afternoon has been less than exemplary, I admit. I don’t usually talk or act like this. This investigation is getting to me. And I wasn’t spying on you. The security guard was.”

Her eyes widened. “Why?”

“My mother asked him to keep an eye on the Doyle’s residence. The fact that he happened to see you and Vaughn and reported it to me was merely a coincidence. No one was spying on you.”

She went quiet, her arms across her chest, her eyes shadowed. He didn’t know what else to say to regain her trust. “Please, say you forgive my deplorable behavior.”

She shrugged, appearing to accept his apology. He sighed with relief, then went on to explain. “Ryan Doyle tried to court my mother after my father died. I don’t know what he did or said, but she doesn’t like or trust him. She’s not the forgiving type.”

Ashley nodded. “I realize that. I was fifteen at the time, had no idea what was happening with my parents and acted on pure instinct.” She spoke softly as though talking to herself. Her gaze shifted to the first button on his shirt before she added, “Maybe it was foolish of me to ask him to save my parents, but my entire life was in that inferno.” She searched Ron’s eyes. “I now know what he did was heroic. When I later learned that he’d died, I wrote letters to your mother asking her to forgive me.”

“Ashley—”

“Let me explain. Please. I didn’t get a response from her, but I kept at it for six months. Then she wrote back, twice.” She waved toward the boxes on the floor. “I was searching for the letters she sent me before you arrived. Her forgiveness helped me deal with my grief, Ron.”

Ron didn’t want to disappoint her, but he highly doubted his mother wrote those letters. He’d grown up hearing her blame Ashley for everything that went wrong in his family. Connie Wilkins, her assistant, most likely wrote them. The woman had been with his mother for almost thirty years now.

“Do you…do you blame me, too, Ron?” Ashley interrupted his thoughts.

His mother never let him forget the part Ashley played that night and yes, he had resented her for a while. But as he had matured and been able to see things realistically, he’d let go of the anger. “No, I don’t blame you.”

Regret and distress flitted across her face. “Thank you. I know he’d still be alive—”

“Don’t.” He wanted to step away, but he found himself cupping her face. Tears trembled on her lashes. He could feel her body quiver, and in that moment, a connection he couldn’t explain formed between them.

Her anguish became his, and he was helpless to stop it from searing through him, twisting his gut and reminding him of his loss. He hadn’t really mourned his father, not when his mother had needed him and the accusation and rumors of his father’s treachery had floated around. His father, the one person who’d given him unconditional love, and he had been too angry and ashamed to mourn him, until now. Something closed around his heart and squeezed.

“Ron?”

His gaze shifted to Ashley face. The anger and the pain were gone, and in their place was concern. Resentment came from nowhere, the lingering accusations he’d grown so accustomed to replacing his pain. He didn’t want her pity. All he needed from her was a description of what she saw that night.

He stiffened, stepped away from her and folded his arms across his chest. “My father was a firefighter, Ashley. He knew the risks involved in his profession.” Her eyes searched his, as though she could see through his feigned indifference to the pain and regret within him.

“I’m sorry for putting you in such an awkward position with my questions. You lost someone you loved that night, too, and I had no business bringing it all back.”

“Let it go, Ashley.” Why did women insist on analyzing everything? He was through tiptoeing around. He had to know if he could count on her. “There’s something else we need to discuss, the reason I’m here.”

She opened her mouth as if to argue, then closed it. A frown settled on her brow. “What is it?”

“I need your input on something.” He pulled a folded, brown manila envelope from his back pocket and offered it to her.

She scowled instead of taking it, mistrust evident in her eyes.

“My mother received them this morning. Someone left the envelope at her gate. I was at a conference in San Diego this week, but she called and asked me to come home because of this. Unfortunately, after going through its contents, she wasn’t in the right frame of mind to discuss anything with you. I want you to look at the pictures and tell me what you think.”

Ashley’s suspicious gaze shifted from the envelope to Ron’s face, then back to the envelope. “What pictures?”

“Just open it, please.”

She took the envelope, opened the flap and pulled out the contents. Her eyes widened and a gasp escaped her lips when she saw the top photograph.

 

***

“It can’t be,” Ashley whispered. The envelope and the other photographs slipped from her nerveless fingers and flitted to the floor, as she sat on the nearest stool.

“What is it?” Unease filled Ron’s voice. “What’s wrong?”

Everything was wrong. She recognized the photograph she’d taken ten years ago. It was from a film she’d lost the night her parents had died. Obviously, someone had removed it from her camera. But who? Why?

Ron hovered over her. “Talk to me. Knew I shouldn’t have sprung this on you like this,” he berated himself. “I should have warned you.” When her gaze stayed riveted on the photograph, he stepped back, picked up the others and the envelope from the floor and rejoined her at the counter. “I thought seeing their picture wouldn’t matter after all this time, but… Talk to me, please.”

She heard his voice, the concern lacing his words, but emotions had seized her throat, making speech difficult. Her eyes bounced back and forth between her father and her mother’s face. They looked so real, so…so alive. The sparkling eyes, the full smiles and the love shining from their faces were all unforgettable. Her hand trembled, as she gently stroked the cold, glossy paper.

“It’s mine,” she finally whispered, her voice hoarse and foreign to her ears.

“What?”

She cut Ron a look, and saw the same confusion in his voice mirrored in his eyes. Biting hard on her lower lip, she took a deep breath, then another. When she had some modicum of control, she stared straight at him and said, slowly and clearly, “I took this picture. It’s mine. I want to know who sent it, Ron.”

“There’s no return address on the envelope or signature on the letter. What do you mean you took the photograph?” he asked.

She slanted him an impatient glance. “I lifted the camera, pointed and shot it.” Her voice was edgy, harsh. “It was the night of the…,” she swallowed, then her chin went up, “the night of the fire.”

Ron rubbed his nape, a puzzled expression on his face. “How’s that possible? How did someone get a hold of them? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I know.” Nothing made sense anymore, including why all this was happening to her now. She could accept Ron’s mother’s hatred, work around Ryan Doyle’s bid, but the sudden appearance of a picture from the roll of film she thought was lost threw her off. Could Ron be right? Did someone start the fire?

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Ron was waiting for an explanation. She wasn’t ready to give one. Scenes from the past flashed through her head. Shopping with her mother, watching her get ready for a performance, listening to both her parents rehearse, devising ways to escape the paparazzi, private picnics in the parks... Then there was that night. Acrid smell of black smoke choking her lungs, burning her eyes, scorching hungry flames at the windows, raucous sounds of the fire trucks…

Her eyes snapped opened in surprise, and her gaze zeroed in on Ron’s hand on top of hers. She welcomed its warmth, the comfort his gesture offered. Irrationally, she wished they were anywhere but in her loft discussing the past. She thought she would never have to revisit that night.

Ron tugged at her hand to draw her attention. “I realize this isn’t easy for you,” he said. “If you don’t want to do this, it’s okay with me.”

“No, no. I’m okay.” Her voice sounded husky to her ears. Who could blame her? Ron was gently stroking the back of her hand with his fingertips. Sensation shot up her arm, filling her with the urge to seek the comfort he was offering, distracting her from what was important. She slid her hand from underneath his.

“I wouldn’t put you through this if it weren’t important,” he said gently.

The low timbre of his voice washed over her, soothed and cocooned her raw nerves. Yes, this was important. If it was tied to an arsonist, it was vital. “I know.”

“Good.” He reached under the brown envelope and pulled out the pictures she’d dropped earlier. He passed her one, his eyes watchful.

Ashley pursed her lips at the picture of three of them together. Her mother and father were on either side of her. “Dad…my father had shown me how to set the camera on a timer. See?” She indicated the background. “It’s the same room as in the first photograph.”

Ron gave her the third photograph. She studied the glossy print. “I took this one outside Carlyle House…I mean, the Carlyle Club, as it was called then. It was the first time I saw it. It looked so grand, magnificent, like a castle straight out of a fairy tale.”

“An exclusive club for the A-list stars was more like it,” he corrected wryly. “A cousin of my mother’s ran it at the time. You were probably the only child ever to enter it at night. I’d been inside it numerous times, but always during the day, when families used the pool and the restaurant.”

If only she could remember going inside. It was frustrating, but at the same time, comforting. She knew it was cowardly of her, but fewer memories of that particular night suited her just fine.

There was a brief, tense silence. From Ron’s expectant expression, she knew he was waiting for her to say something. She’d never wanted to discuss what happened, but something about the man’s calming presence urged her on.

“It was my birthday,” she finally said, deciding to tiptoe rather than dive into the horror.

Ron’s eyebrows shot up. “The day of the fire?”

She gave him a weak smile and nodded. “Makes one wonder what the big guy upstairs was thinking.”

“Damn,” he said under his breath.

Damned was exactly how she felt on her birthdays. Celebrating, and at the same time mourning, was enough to throw a kink in anyone’s psyche. But to a child, it was pure torture. Without her dear, loving Aunt Estelle, she didn’t know if she could have endured it.

A frown creased her brow when she caught Ron’s expression. Was it pity or compassion? Pity was the one emotion she refused to accept from anyone. She clenched her hand.

“I’ve learned to live with it.” Her tone came out defensive. “My aunt made everything okay.”

Ron shook his head. “But you’re reminded of your loss on your birthdays. How can anyone make that okay?”

She shrugged. “By making me have two birthday parties—one in the morning with my cousins and friends, and another in the afternoon at the cemetery. I’d pick flowers from the garden, take pieces of cake and drinks from the party, a cassette player and a recording of a rendition of the happy birthday song my parents did while they were still alive. My aunt and uncle would go with me, wait for me while I talked to my parents.”

Did he think she was loony because she talked to the dead? She shot him a glance out of the corner of her eye, expecting to see shock or derision. Relief and something close to gratitude zipped through her when she saw him nod.

“In the early years, I’d always talk about the same thing—my birthday party and the presents I received that morning. Then I’d play the tape and arrange the cakes and drinks by their graves and leave.”

“That must have been tough.” His voice was gentle, encouraging.

“At first, yes. As I grew older, it became easier. I know it is illogical, but I believed they could hear me. I still do. I always see things clearly after talking to them.” When she saw the fascinated expression on Ron’s face, she blushed. “Silly, huh?”

Ron covered her hand with his, again. “No, it isn’t. My grandmother used to speak with my grandfather all the time. She once told me that when you truly love someone, you share a bond that transcends the physical world. I believe her.”

Hmm, interesting. There was more to this man than a sexy body, a sensual mouth, mesmerizing pair of electric blue eyes…she could go on forever. She glanced furtively at their joined hands. It felt natural, yet his large hand swallowed her smaller one. He was back to caressing her skin, unleashing a storm of emotions inside her.

She wrenched her gaze away. This was silly. To find a man totally fascinating was so unlike her. And what were they discussing before they switched to ‘talking to the dead’?

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.