From the Ashes (Southern Heat Book 1)

by Jamie Garrett

  Scott said, sliding the phone back into his pocket, “Okay, he’ll see you.”

  18

  Sloane

  “How did this information get out to the media?” It was the second time Sloane had asked that question of Detective Bascom and for the second time, he didn’t answer. After she informed him what she’d seen on the news less than twenty minutes ago, he had stared at her in dismay and glanced at his partner, Detective Williams, exchanging a strong look. Williams had immediately excused himself and left the small office.

  “We’ll look into that, Miss Maxwell. In the meantime—”

  “I need a phone. Like I told Scott, I need—”

  “And who exactly are you going to call, Miss Maxwell? Do you remember something or somebody?”

  Sloane sighed and struggled to hang on to her patience. “Well, it would be nice to talk to Mason, or to be able to call 911 if I needed to.” Now she sounded lame, but there was nothing worse than feeling so isolated, so separated from what was going on around her. Waiting for everyone else to—

  “Actually, that might not be a bad idea,” Bascom mused, leaning back in his chair, tapping his pen against the papers scattered across the surface of his desk blotter.

  She frowned. What was he thinking? He looked up at her with what she could only describe as a sly grin.

  “The dead guy, Travis Reed, had a connection to your boss and Novus Antiquities. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to see if we could get any information from him, but not directly. From you.”

  “From me?” Sloane startled. “What kind of information could he possibly get from me?”

  “The last time you spoke with him, you mentioned that he told you that you could come back to work, is that right?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “I’ll get you a phone, Miss Maxwell. But I want you to know it’s going to be tapped. Incoming and outgoing calls, so if you and Mason want to have a private conversation, you might want to do that in person.”

  She felt the heat of a blush warm her cheeks and opened her mouth to protest. He lifted a hand, stopping her.

  “But here’s the main reason I’m thinking this might be effective. If you agree, that is. You give your boss a call. The news anchor said you were regaining bits and pieces of your memory, right?”

  She nodded, not sure where he was going with this.

  “Let’s see if he takes a nibble. If he’s involved, he may say something.”

  “That sounds a lot like you’re using me for bait,” she interrupted, shaking her head. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. “What if he was involved? Where does that leave me?”

  “In the same place you are now, Miss Maxwell. At a safe house, guarded twenty-four hours a day. You want this resolved, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do, but—”

  “You’ll be perfectly safe. We’ll be tracking any phone calls. Let’s just see what he says, okay? If nothing comes of it, I’ll take the tap off your phone. Until we can completely clear you, though, and your involvement in the situation is resolved, we will continue to monitor any calls.” Again he raised his hand to head off another interruption. “Please understand our position, Miss Maxwell. Until your memory returns and we can definitively rule you out as a knowing participant in Travis Reed’s murder, this is the best I can offer you. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  She did. That was the problem. Finally, Sloane muttered acquiescence. She didn’t like this, not one dammed bit. She was being blatantly used and she knew it. But maybe, just maybe, something would come of it. She would have a phone. She could call Mason, at least hear a friendly voice. It wasn’t a patch on seeing him in person, but it would have to do for now.

  Bascom returned quickly with the phone. Sloane held it in her hand, turning it over and over as Bascom sat behind his desk, watching her. Where had he gotten an anonymous burner and tapped it so quickly? It had probably been confiscated from some criminal. It didn’t matter. She remembered the phone number for Novas Antiquities from when she and Mason had visited Savannah. She tapped out the number and then put the phone on speaker. Several rings later, a male answered.

  “Hello?” Such a brusque voice.

  “Mister Sakkas?”

  “Yes, who is it?”

  “It’s Sloane . . . Sloane Maxwell.” She glanced at the detective. He gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Sloane, how are you doing?” The tone of his voice changed, grew friendlier. “Has your memory come back yet? I’m falling behind. I could use you back at the office.”

  She glanced again at Bascom, nodding encouragement. “Just bits and pieces, Mister Sakkas.”

  “Oh, no need for formalities, Sloane. It’s Stavros, remember?”

  “Yes, yes, I remember.” An awkward pause. “Anyway, I was just wondering if I could take you up on that offer to come back to the office, maybe just for a few hours?”

  “So your memory is returning?” Sakkas interrupted. “The first time the police called me, they said you were up in Monroe. Do you remember now what you were doing up there?”

  The detective leaned forward in his chair, head tilted forward. “No, I’m afraid I don’t, but—”

  “Well, let’s give it a few more days. Maybe your memories will return fully, but in the meantime, stay encouraged. Oh, and do be careful when it comes to the police, won’t you? It wouldn’t be the first time a falsely accused person was sent to jail. I’d hate to think the same could happen to you, especially on a murder charge.”

  Go to jail? A murder charge? Sloane’s gaze few up to Bascom, but he was still staring intently at the phone.

  “ . . . I think it’s just dreadful, the way the Feds are digging into our company, our finances . . . do you know if there’s a reason for this? Have they told you anything? Or do they think you were involved in setting that fire yourself?”

  Her eyes widened and anxiety rippled up her spine and giving her goose bumps. Sloane stammered in reply. “No, Mister Sakkas . . . Stavros, I have no idea why the Feds would be interested in your company. No reason at all.”

  “You know . . . or you used to know, that doing business on international levels is difficult enough as it is. We wouldn’t want either one of us to end up in an awkward situation, would we?”

  “No, not at all.” Sloane felt like she had just been punched in the stomach. “I’m sorry for any trouble my situation has caused you. I’m doing my best to try to remember. I’ll touch base with you in a few days. Would that be all right?”

  “Of course, my dear,” he said. “You just get better. Goodbye now.”

  The call disconnected.

  “Well, apparently, he’s not too happy with what the Feds have been doing.” Sloane pinned Bascom with the best glare she could manage while she was half scared stiff. “Why are they looking through his business records? Do you think all this has something to do with him?”

  “Who knows?” Bascom said. “We’ll look into it.” The reply was casual, but the detective’s frown said Sakkas’ involvement was anything but.

  The thinly veiled warning that Sakkas had uttered did nothing to soothe Sloane’s emotions. Or her fears. Was she involved in all this? Had he been trying to give her a warning to be careful, or had it been given as a threat?

  Sloane was escorted back to the safe house, but she wasn’t the slightest bit happy. She did have a phone, which had been her goal, but her brief conversation with her former boss or current boss, or whatever, still bothered her. Had he known she was with the cops? How could he? She shivered, remembering Sakkas’ comment about innocent people going to jail. Was he trying to suggest the police were going to blame her for the murder of the guy in the auto shop? Did they really think that she could remember? That she was lying? How could she make them believe her?

  God. All these questions were going to drive her completely insane!

  Before she left the police station, Bascom had told her that they were still going through evidence, following leads.
An investigation like this could take a long time, he’d said. A long time. That was too bad, because Sloane had no intention of staying in the safe house much longer. In a small town like Monroe, the police department’s budget wouldn’t be able to withstand the staff needed to protect her twenty-four hours a day for much longer. The case would stall, new leads would stop coming in, and they would stop caring about her safety. Besides, how much longer could she sit in that apartment, hiding, wondering, letting the worst of her imagination sweep her into a vortex of misery?

  Scott dropped her off at the front gate of the complex and told her that Martin would arrive in a few minutes and park in the usual spot to keep an eye on her apartment. Distracted, she thanked him for the ride and entered the complex. As she walked down the grass-lined pathway to her apartment, she pulled the cell phone from her pocket and dialed Mason’s phone number. She had memorized it before going into the safe house as he had suggested.

  The phone rang four times. Maybe he was on call. Or he just didn’t want to talk to her—

  “Hello?”

  “Mason, it’s me, Sloane. I—”

  “Are you all right? Where did you get a phone?”

  “I just came back from a short visit with Detective Bascom. I told him I wanted a phone, didn’t like to be so isolated, but—”

  “Is there anything new with the investigation?”

  “No, not really. I just wanted to let you know I had a phone, so you can call me if you want—but this phone is being tapped, or will be soon.”

  A long pause. “I finish my shift in a couple of hours. Tell you what. I’ll swing by after work. We can talk, okay?”

  Sloane latched onto the suggestion like a drowning man to a raft. She didn’t want to feel so desperate, but she had to admit it that she was. She missed Mason. She missed his smile, his comforting voice, and his warmth. The feel of his skin against hers, not only providing intense pleasure but a sense of security that she hadn’t felt such a very long time. She only hoped that she’d get to feel it again, more than once, before whatever the hell was going on caught up with her once and for all.

  19

  Mason

  “I’m starting to remember things. And I keep having this dream . . .”

  “What kind of things?” Mason sat on the threadbare couch under the window, the blinds drawn, gazing at Sloane. She looked troubled, if her constant frown and the way she plucked nervously at her jeans was any indication.

  “Just bits and pieces, like what was happening in your apartment before they put me here. A few memories of . . . of you and me.” She smiled. “It’s like watching a movie. We were much younger then, weren’t we?”

  He nodded. “What’s bothering you?”

  Sloane wasn’t just bringing this up to reminisce. He hadn’t seen her for a couple of days, but she was so quiet, so introspective. Had something happened at the police department? He wouldn’t pressure her. If she was still the Sloane he remembered, she’d eventually tell him what it was.

  She collapsed onto the sofa, folding her feet under her, turning so that she faced him. “I can’t understand my sudden desperation to have a phone,” she admitted, gesturing to the phone sitting on the coffee table. She’d already told him about the newscast. “It’s just that after I heard that on the news, I felt so isolated, so separated from what’s going on out there.” She looked toward the covered living room window. “I told Bascom about the news and they’re looking into it. A leak of some sorts. At first he was reluctant to give me a phone at all. I could tell. But then he told me it might be a good idea.”

  “Did he tell you why?” Mason asked, adjusting his position on the sofa. Their knees almost touched.

  “He asked me to call my old boss.”

  “Sakkas?”

  “Yeah, on the pretext of my touching base. I don’t know, Mason. Just to see if Sakkas said anything either to incriminate himself—or me.”

  He wanted to kiss her. To touch her. To stroke his hands over her skin, ease the tension she obviously felt. But not here. Not now, not with the apartment being watched, maybe even bugged. Unlike Sloane, he didn’t put anything past the cops.

  “Have you remembered something specific? I mean something that gives you the impression that you were involved in all that?”

  She offered a sigh and looked up at him. “How can I not consider it, Mason? Sakkas, he said something about I should be careful, that it wouldn’t be the first time an innocent person was jailed for something they didn’t do. And then at the end of the conversation he said he wouldn’t want either of us to be in an awkward situation.” She groaned in frustration. “What if . . . what if I’m not as innocent as I feel?”

  He leaned forward and pulled her into his arms. She smelled good. Of soap and shampoo and all Sloane. “Impossible. You could never hurt anybody.” She snuggled her face into the crook of his neck. Despite his assurances, Mason couldn’t help worry. When was her memory going to come back in more than fits and starts? The doctor had said that it would probably start coming back in a few days. It’d been nearly two weeks. Were the police going to start looking for a scapegoat soon? The more she remembered, the sooner all of this would be over.

  Sloane wrapped her arms around him, stroking his back. Damn, she felt good. What she needed right now was a distraction. His pulse quickened and he felt his dick rousing. Damn it, but that was going to have to wait.

  “Why can’t I remember? I need to get on with my life. I feel like I’m stuck in a fog. Limbo. I can’t go forward and I can’t go back. Stuck.”

  He reluctantly pulled away, brushing a strand of hair that dropped across her forehead and tucking it behind her ear. “Tell me about the dream.”

  “Smoke. I remember feeling terrified. Trying to get out, but the smoke was so thick I couldn’t breathe. Coughing.” She touched her head. “My head hurt.”

  She looked so sad, so despondent.

  “As soon as I wake up, the essence of the dream is gone, just like the smoke. It hangs around, almost like an afterthought, but I can’t figure out where I am, what I’m doing. I’m just . . . there.”

  He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Look, Sloane, you know you’re not a killer. You’re not the one who murdered that man. You’re the one that was taking the video on the camera—”

  “About how can you be so sure, Mason? How can you be so sure I’m not involved when I’m not sure?”

  How could he? Despite questions and doubts about the entire situation, Mason would never believe that Sloane could deliberately harm anyone. But what had she been doing in that abandoned auto shop? Why had she been filming those two, he had no idea. Until the cops found something, she was the only person that knew anything, even if that knowledge was locked in the recesses of her mind.

  “You remember anything else? Any other dreams? Images?”

  “There is a place,” she frowned. “It almost looks like . . . a pawn shop or something. The room is cluttered with all kinds of items, it smells musty, and there’s an old man behind the counter. He’s smiling.”

  “Are you with anyone? You hear a voice that sounds familiar?”

  She closed her eyes, as if trying to restore the image. “A voice? Yes, yes, I think there is. Some kind of an accent, mild, but there—”

  “Can you remember any other smells or aromas? Those seem to be the trigger for your memories. Anything that reminds you of someone or some place?”

  She was still for several moments, and then she lifted her head, her eyes wide. “I think it was my boss. The voice, the accent. He’s Greek!”

  Mason watched the pleased expression transform her features, the smile that lifted her lips. Despite the worries niggling at the back of his own brain, he smiled in return. “That’s good, Sloane. See, you are remembering.” He squeezed her hand again. “It’s perfectly logical that you would be out and about with your boss. A pawn shop? I don’t know about that, but I would suppose that once in a while those guys end up with s
omething in their possession that an antiquities dealer might be interested in.”

  Sloane thought about it. “That sounds reasonable.” She scooted forward on the sofa. “You think I should call Sakkas and ask him?”

  Mason shook his head. “Not just yet. Let the cops finish digging into him. Is there anything else you can remember? Any other people you might’ve worked with?”

  She rose from the sofa and began to pace in the small living room. “There is someone, a man, a bit younger than myself. I keep seeing his features.” Her shoulders slumped. “But I can’t remember if he’s someone I worked with or if he’s just a friend, or . . .”

  She didn’t have to finish the sentence. Mason knew why. Maybe he was a boyfriend. Maybe something more. He leaned back into the couch, watching as she continued to pace. She was trying too hard, growing agitated, frustrated with her inability to remember. It must feel horrible to not remember. To have no sense of up or down, where to go for relief.

  A distraction was definitely in order, although not the kind that he hoped for. “How about we order some pizza?”

  20

  Sloane

  Sloane woke up the following morning feeling anxious. Mason had stayed until about eleven o’clock and then left the apartment to go back to his place. She had wanted so much to ask him to stay the night. Why hadn’t she? Because the place might be bugged? Because Scott or Martin was sitting out in the parking lot watching her apartment? Because she might be involved in that man’s murder? There were a million reasons, but that didn’t stop her from wanting him. God, it had been so long since she’d felt the slide of his naked body, his skin brushing against hers every place possible. The longer the physical side of their new—or was it old?—relationship stayed suppressed, the more her anxiety roiled.