And I have to concede, knowing what I know, I wouldn't risk losing one second.
"I see your point," I say, wandering back to the window where the vibrant greens and blues of the ocean somehow settle my nerves.
As soon as we're done here, I'm going down to the beach where laughing vacationers—young couples, parents with small children—are scattered everywhere. I generally don't go into the water, as I'm not an accomplished swimmer, but today I may need to immerse myself in all that salty goodness.
"It's feasible," Jeremy adds.
I peel my gaze from the water and face my son. "And your father never said anything more? Nothing about George or telling George?"
“If he did, George never told me about it."
He's looking straight at me and I desperately want to believe him, to hang on to the trust we’ve built over the years. Still, knowing that he and his father kept this from me, I’m finding it hard to do.
What I do know is that as soon as I get back to Bel-Air, I'll be paying George a visit. Not only to confront him about squealing to my sons, but to find out what, if anything, he knew about Simon’s talk with Myles.
A soft knock sounds on the door. "It's probably Phillip,” Jeremy says. “I'll get it."
Clearly, he's looking for something to do. An escape from this conversation and my pointed questions about his past. Or maybe it’s the idea that we’ve just had a crucial conversation that will forever alter our relationship.
Lies do that.
He opens the door and Phillip steps in.
"Hey," Phillip says to his brother. "Something is blowing up at work. I need to get back for a nine a.m. meeting tomorrow. Do you want to stay or come back with me?"
They're leaving. Excellent. It sounds awful even to me, but Phillip’s overprotective tendencies will only be in the way and after this day, I'm not in the mood to deal with him attempting to control my life.
Jeremy looks over at me, relief sparking in his gaze. He wants to go. Why wouldn’t he, after I’ve just lambasted him? “Go,” I say. "I'll be fine. Rae is here if I need something."
"Rae," Phillip says. "Great. The one who started this whole thing."
"She's not to blame. Coming here was my idea.” Before he can get a word in, I forge ahead. “What time is your flight?"
"The pilot needs two hours. We have enough time to grab something to eat and then we'll go. Please, don't stay down here too long. I want you home within three days."
Arguing with Phillip is a waste of time. He is a lawyer, after all. For now, I'll tell him what he wants to hear and deal with the fallout if I choose to stay longer.
"Yes, master."
At my sarcasm, he snorts. "Don't even start, Mom. Is there anything you need me to do at home while you're down here? Check on the house or whatever?"
The roll of film. We dropped it off to be developed and after talking with Sanchez, I’m wondering if there might be something in Simon’s photos that might help.
I glance at Jeremy, who has a key to my house and has suddenly lost my trust. My God. How will we ever move on from this?
For now, given his involvement with the Grande, I don’t want Jeremy anywhere near those photos.
Once the boys leave, I’ll send Phillip a text, asking him to stop by the house, retrieve the claim ticket for the photos from the kitchen table, and pick them up. At which point, I will call him to see if there is anything even remotely incriminating in them. Hindsight being what it is, I should have requested the photos be downloaded to a disc so he could e-mail them to me. Drat.
“If I think of anything,” I tell Phillip. “I’ll send you a note.”
27
Rae
* * *
$148.63
* * *
While Rose goes to dinner with Phillip and Jeremy, I beg off and wander down the beach to a casual—meaning cheap—seafood place the front desk clerk recommended. Apparently, there's a beachside walk-up window where I can order my food and then eat at a picnic table. All while enjoying a view of the ocean. Cheap, tasty, and with an ocean view?
Count.
Me.
In.
This trip feels like one big juicy adventure.
I’ll admit, turning down Rose’s invitation to join them gave me a healthy dose of guilt. I mean, she’s covering the expenses for this trip, so I should pretty much do whatever she wants. Except that doesn’t sit right. I’m still a journalist and she’s my subject. I have to at least try to remain impartial and her paying for everything creates a conflict of interest. Which I should have thought about before I boarded that private plane.
I shake my head as I tromp down the beach. Too much thinking. That’s my problem. I’m over-analyzing and I hate that. Particularly after the long day. Now, all I want is a walk on the quiet beach.
Alone.
I'm used to a solitary life. I like a solitary life. Especially at night. Most of my evenings are spent in the newsroom battling a deadline. When I have a night off and can curl up with a good book or a movie, I’m relaxed. And not worrying about the haters who blame me for wrecking an entire town.
I need to figure out what I’m doing with my life. I glance up at a couple coming toward me strolling hand in hand. I’ve never been a romantic, but that would be nice. To have someone’s hand to hold. I have time, though. I know I do, so forget the couple. Behind them is a kid with a super-cool kite that he’s deftly flying, somehow making it loopy-loop and dive and climb and…wow. Maybe I’ll learn to fly a kite.
Or just get a hobby.
Wind slaps my hair against my cheeks, but shoving the loose strands behind my ears would be futile, so I ignore it and keep walking. Waning sun has allowed the sand to cool and my feet sink into all that powdery goodness. The beach, the ocean, the air. Perfection.
I am a happy camper.
I stop walking, halting in the middle of the beach to take it all in. Even with the chaos of the day and Rose’s sons showing up to yell at us, I feel relaxed. At peace.
And I haven’t felt that for months.
My stomach rumbles and I’m reminded that I’m in search of the seafood place. Just ahead are a handful of wooden picnic tables painted the same sea green as the ocean. Suddenly, the mix of salty air and frying fish alerts my raging stomach that a good meal is on the way. This has to be the place.
I walk toward the picnic tables and the shack that's no bigger than a large garden shed. It's no-frills with one window where you order food and then another a few feet down for picking up. There's a large red "order here" sign that keeps things simple, so I make my way there, getting in line behind six people waiting for food.
I consider the line a positive indication I'll be getting a good meal. The table beside me holds a few laminated menus and I snatch one up to peruse the choices. The cod looks good. Or the crab legs. Maybe scallops. All under twenty dollars.
Between the aroma of freshly cooked food and the giant order of beans and rice a customer just wandered by with, my ravenous stomach unleashes a growl half the beach probably heard.
The fishermen's platter. That's what I'm going with. It's a combination of the fresh catch of the day, crab legs, shrimp, and the scallops. It'll be way too much food, but I’ll have a snack later.
Plus, I’m a girl who likes food. A lot.
And it’s only $24.00. Including tax.
That decision made, I set the menu down just as the line moves. Getting closer. I sense someone behind me and turn. It’s a man with dark glasses and a baseball cap. The glasses strike me as odd since the sun is nearly down.
He nods once and I smile. Might as well be friendly, right? "Hello,” I say.
“RaeLynn,” he says.
Whoa.
A skittering panic makes my skin tingle and I swing my head back to the folks in front of me. I’m not alone. That’s all I can think. Not like with the goon. Now, I’m in public with six people in front of me.
I turn back to the guy. He’s beefy with a good
ten inches on me. My eyes go to his mouth. The full lips and laugh lines surrounding them. A day’s worth of stubble. If I were to guess, I’d peg him at around forty. Maybe.
“How do you know my name?”
“We have a mutual acquaintance.”
Definitely American.
“Who?”
He smiles, revealing white teeth and a slightly overlapping incisor. “Doesn't matter. All that matters is that some stories shouldn’t be told.” He lifts a hand, wags his finger at me as he leans in, getting way too far into my space. “I can find you,” he whispers, “wherever you go.”
Wherever. You. Go.
My knees lock and a stabbing pain shoots across my lower back, but I’m frozen. Whether it’s shock or fear—maybe both—I can’t move.
I’m not alone.
That’s all I can think as my pulse slams against my neck hard enough to refocus me. There are others here. Right behind me. I draw comfort from it and stand a little taller. If I can fight off a goon in my apartment, I can deal with this jerk in a public place.
No, sir. This moron will not control this situation. I inhale and the long pull of moist air snaps my brain to fight mode.
No, sir.
This time, I’m the one who leans in. “Whoever you are, you’ve got five seconds to get the hell away from me before I start screaming.”
His lips press into a hard line and he peers over my shoulder at the other customers. Yes, think about it. A second later, he returns his attention to me, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk I should slap from his smarmy face.
Swear to God, people are assholes. “You’re down to three seconds,” I say.
He steps back and my banging pulse settles to a thump, but I’m not out of it yet. He’s still here and I still have to get back to the hotel.
He retreats another step and wags that finger again. “Remember what I said.”
And then he’s moving, walking away, heading down the beach toward a family of four and various other folks jogging and looking for shells. I glance around. No one is looking at me. Two of the couples in front of me have already ordered and are moving to the second window.
I inhale, hold my breath until my chest kicks, and then sigh it out. The good news—in a weird way—is that these things still scare me. After the last few weeks of hate mail and phone calls that included all sorts of nastiness, I'd started to think I'd gotten numb to it all.
Not so. Yay, me!
But, dammit. Who was that guy? A fresh bout of anxiety mixed with a strong dose of anger seizes my system and my stomach decides it can wait on food. After the last few weeks, I know how this works. In an hour, I'll calm down and need food. Plus, I won’t give in to the fear. I refuse to let it control me.
No.
Sir.
I watch the guy head in the opposite direction of my hotel and back up a few steps, staying in line to order my fishermen's platter. To go.
Twenty minutes later, after opting for a $10.00 cab ride back, I use my key to unlock our suite and find Rose alone. Thank you. She's sitting on the sofa, her legs crossed as she reads what looks like one of the documents I printed at the business center earlier.
She’s changed into a pair of knit lounge pants and a V-neck shirt that looks so soft that I want to curl into it. Or maybe I’m still freaked about the guy from the beach.
“Hello, my dear."
I do a quick check of the hallway and quickly shut the door behind me. “Hi, Rose. How did your dinner go?"
"As well as could be expected, considering my displeasure with Jeremy and my further displeasure with Phillip. He’s apparently elected himself King of the Universe and is busy bossing me around."
She says this in her Haughty Rose voice and—and I can’t help it—a laugh gurgles in my throat. I bite my bottom lip to squash a smile. She's just so darned funny sometimes. A fantastic snob.
“I’m sorry. But,” I roll one hand, “it’s kind of nice that he cares, right? I mean, he loves you."
She pins me with a look that tells me I may have just been added to her list of people that displease her. Wouldn't be the first time.
“It's lovely that he's concerned. I'll give him that." She pats the cushion beside her. "Come sit. I've been going over these notes and have come across a list of all those poor people who died. There is also the arson report."
Ooh. That would be interesting to see. I'd done plenty of research on the fire and had cobbled together notes on its progression, but never managed to find the actual report. Then there’s the fact that the smaller fires set by union workers at other hotels were easily extinguished. In one case, the fire department wasn’t even called.
I toss the bag with my food on the table and join Rose on the sofa, opting not to share with her—right now anyway—the visit from the creep on the beach. I need to wrap my head around it and figure out how Charlie Carter found me all the way down here.
And, if not Charlie, then who?
I take the document from Rose. “What does it say?"
“The fire started on the second floor in a storage room beside the restaurant. I don't know how familiar you are with the layout of the hotel, but the casino was the entire ground floor and the second floor was fine dining on the south side and a café on the north side. Both had an exquisite view of the ocean. According to this report, in between the two restaurants was a large storage closet."
"I'd read about the storage closet. There was furniture in there."
"Yes. At the time of the fire, large cartons of replacement chairs for the café were temporarily being stored there. Also some nonperishables. Cooking oil, flour, sugar, and china. "
Rose hands me the sheet. “Right. I remember reading somewhere that the arsonist poured oil on the big boxes and set them on fire. Hang on." I drop the report on the coffee table and hop off the couch. "I have photos and schematics of the first two floors in my bag. We can lay them out and follow the progress of the fire."
I head to my room for my messenger bag and by the time I return, Rose is standing at the dining table, arson report in hand. If she’s nervous, I can’t see it. All I see is her crystal blue eyes sparkling with excitement.
Quickly, I dig various photos—before and after the blaze—and drawings from my bag and line them up on the table. Casino and lobby on the first floor. Restaurant, café, and management office on the second.
Rose hands me the report again. "Okay," I say. “It was the middle of the afternoon, so both restaurants were closed, right?"
“Correct. Fine dining was only offered in evenings. And the café was closed from two to five to prep for dinner."
"So if you wanted to set the place on fire, doing it when the floors were virtually empty would be the time to do it." I tap the drawings of the restaurants. “The closet would have been right here."
I separate the photos of the two restaurants, making a space where the closet would have been.
“According to the report,” Rose says, “both restaurants filled with smoke and then there was a flashover." She peers over my shoulder to read and then points to the third paragraph. "Right here. They estimated it took four minutes for the combustible wall materials in the restaurant to catch fire."
I skim the paragraph. Second-floor oxygen depleted. High amounts of carbon monoxide. I look back at my makeshift representation of the Grande and tap the photo of the restaurant. “The heat and stress from the flashover caused a glass wall to shatter and smoke poured from the restaurant into the foyer." I flip to the next page. "Forty seconds. Oh my God. It took forty seconds from that flashover for the smoke to pour down the staircase and start filling the casino. That's when things got really crazy."
28
Rose
* * *
Get crazy it did.
I continue reading over Rae’s shoulder, the words jumping out at me. Hot. Toxic. Wall of flame.
Threat.
All these years later, I can still picture it, the images seared into
my brain. I’d just entered the hotel’s lobby from the beach where, thirty minutes earlier, I’d wished Simon luck on his golf round and sent him on his way.
Having had enough sun and set on a shower, I headed to the elevator bank near the staircase that led to the second-floor restaurants. Twenty feet from the staircase, I spotted it. That first black serpent of smoke slithering across the ceiling.
And the smell. God, suddenly my lungs are straining and the room is squeezing in on me. I draw my fingers into fists as it all comes back to me. Standing in the lobby, the sickening, noxious odor permeating the air.
“Run!” I’d screamed.
A woman in front of me stopped and whipped around. “Smoke! Run!”
For a short time, all sound is blocked and I draw a breath, only to cough it back out as my lungs reject the rancid air. My blood races, filling my veins to bursting as panic takes hold. I fight against the assault. Stay calm. Think.
Oxygen. I need it. I lift my arm, using the gauzy bell sleeve of my cover-up as a filter. I draw a breath—better—and force my mind to focus on this very second. To not get too far ahead of what’s happening. I shake out my arms, releasing the energy plowing into me.
Run.
Stairwell. Barely ten feet ahead. It leads to an emergency exit and it’s my logical escape. The woman in front of me is gone and I take one step before a massive black cloud sweeps down, smothering the space until I can’t see to the other side. Too much smoke. Even if I could see, I’d die of asphyxiation before I got through there. Death chamber, dead ahead.
I flick my gaze left, to the glass wall of the casino. Gayle. She’d left the pool forty minutes earlier, her skin crispy from too much sun. Blackjack, she’d joked, was the perfect solution to a sunburn.
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