Free Slow Burn by Ednah Walters Page A

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