From the Ashes (Southern Heat Book 1)

by Jamie Garrett

  Sloane’s stay at the safe house had transitioned from a few days to the past week and a half. She might not be living with him anymore, but he still visited as often as he could, to check on her, to see how she was holding up. Bascom had reluctantly allowed him access to the safe house, given Mason was part of the first responder community. He rolled his eyes as he walked up the building’s stairs. Who was he kidding? He wanted to see her. Simple as that. Sloane was champing at the bit. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to convince her to stay there any longer. He knew she wanted to come back and stay with him, but she was still worried about putting him in danger. He didn’t give a shit about that, but it bothered Sloane. He didn’t want to pile any more stress on her shoulders, so he tried to convince her to sit tight for awhile longer.

  He groaned at just the thought of her back in his apartment. Fuck, he was sporting a semi just from picturing her standing in his living room, let alone his fucking bedroom. He missed her. Spending those few days with her at his apartment had brought back feelings and memories of so many good times. When they had made love that night, it was as if the years had melted away. Still, at the very recesses of his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder what Sloane couldn’t remember. How was she involved? It was obvious that whoever wanted her dead didn’t care about collateral damage. Like him.

  But he had some news for her, news that he had garnered from Ryan Atkins, his contact at the sheriff’s department. He didn’t care if she was supposed to know or not. It was obvious that Bascom didn’t intend to tell her anything. He’d been sitting on the information for several days. To what end?

  Bascom was probably only following procedure. He should be logical about it, too, leave his emotions at the door. But damn it, he didn’t want to. There was no way Mason was ever going to believe that Sloane could be involved in a murder. Even in something that precipitated the murder. There was just no way.

  Bascom had called him at the fire house that afternoon, mentioning that he would be bringing Sloane into the station later that night. He wanted Mason there as well. Curiosity gnawed at him. Was the detective finally going to tell them the same thing that he had just learned from Ryan?

  He pulled into the parking lot of his apartment and waited for several moments, a habit he’d developed since the night he and Sloane had driven back up from Savannah. Turning off the car, Mason looked up at his apartment, then the surrounding area: the parking lot, the surrounding woods, and up and down the street. So far he hadn’t seen anything suspicious, but it paid to be cautious. Especially now.

  Mason exited the Jeep and headed upstairs to his apartment, where he planned to quickly change and then head down to the police department. He scowled. How had this turned into such a mess? If it hadn’t been Sloane Maxwell he pulled out of that burning building, he wouldn’t be involved in all. He would have sent the victim off in that ambulance and never thought of her again. She was worth it, though. He couldn’t be disappointed that Sloane was back in his life, even if it was only temporarily. It’d taken her return for him to realize just how much he still missed her. Missed their relationship, their camaraderie, and their connection to one another. Never had he felt such a connection to another woman like he had felt with Sloane, like he still felt whenever he was around her.

  Swinging the door open, Mason quickly glanced around his apartment. Nothing was out of place. No one had been inside in his absence. He dumped a handful of tiny confetti-sized pieces of paper on the carpet a few inches from the door that morning, and they were still in the same place, undisturbed. The decorator pillow from the sofa that he had “carelessly” tossed into the short hallway was still lying in exactly the same spot. His half-empty coffee cup, undisturbed yet set precariously close to the edge of the table hadn’t moved. Not exactly high tech in regard to security, but not bad for an amateur.

  In a matter of minutes, he changed and headed back out the door, his thoughts busy as he drove to the police station. He was looking forward to seeing Sloane. Every time, he felt a brief surge of excitement. They hadn’t made love since that first time in his apartment, Sloane not wanting to at the safe house in case the place had cameras or was bugged. Still, every time he saw her, he remembered the feel of his lips on the warm skin of her throat. The texture of her thigh beneath his palm, the softness of her lips on his. Every time he saw her, he recalled the throaty sounds she made as they had made love, their bodies moving rhythmically as if ten years had never been. It was exquisite torture, and he couldn’t get enough of it.

  By the time he got to the police station, his thoughts had given him yet another hard-on and he was forced to wait in the car for several minutes, trying to think of anything but Sloane until his dick was under control. Erections were almost a perpetual problem around Sloane since she’d come back into his life. Finally, uncomfortable yet confident that no one would notice his semi beneath his jeans and untucked t-shirt, Mason walked into the police station. He told the desk officer that Lieutenant Bascom was waiting for him, and was thumbed through the small bullpen toward one of the offices at the back of the main room. Sloane was already there, seated in a chair across the desk, her face downturned, her fingers plucking at an imaginary piece of lint on her jeans.

  She heard him approach and glanced up, her expression brightening when she laid eyes on him. Her smile nearly made him melt. “Hey, Sloane, how are you doing today?”

  “The same as I was yesterday,” she sighed. “And the day before, and the day before that.”

  She turned from Mason to pout in Bascom’s direction. Mason held back a grin and took the other empty chair in front of the lieutenant’s desk. He reached for Sloane’s hand. After a brief moment of hesitation, she extended her hand, but jerked it right back when Bascom’s partner, Larry Williams, entered the room, followed by the FBI agent, Jeremy Matthews. The small room grew even smaller. Williams and Matthews leaned against the wall while Bascom nodded and gestured to the door. Williams closed it.

  “We got a hit on the body in the abandoned auto shop,” Bascom began without preamble.

  “Who was it?”

  Bascom glanced at Mason and then turned toward Sloane. “His name was Travis Reed.”

  “The name doesn’t sound familiar to me,” Sloane said. “Who is—who was he?”

  “He ran an import-export business out of London,” Bascom replied. “From what we’ve uncovered so far, he had commercial ties to your boss at Novas Antiquities, Stavros Sakkas.”

  There it was. The same information that Mason’s friend had given him last night. Mason glanced at Sloane. “Doesn’t ring a bell?” She shook her head and he turned to the lieutenant. “What was the name of Reed’s business in London?”

  Bascom frowned at Mason, but glanced down at the paper in front of him on his desk blotter. “Meridian Antiques and Collectibles.”

  “And the man who killed him? Do you have any idea about his identity?” Mason watched Sloane, who was frowning, her head tilted slightly to the side, eyes closed. Trying to remember? Searching the recesses of her mind?

  “What were you doing there?”

  The question came from the FBI agent. He stood casually, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, the tone of his voice was anything but. Sloane opened her eyes and looked over at him, her mouth open in startled surprise.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “The name doesn’t sound familiar, nor does the business.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Nothing I can do about that,” she snapped.

  “Are you sure about that?” The agent took a step closer to her chair.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What else have you conveniently forgotten? I’m getting rather tired of this bullshit excuse and your claim of supposed amnesia—”

  Over Sloane’s sputtered protests, Mason rose from his chair. “Enough, Agent—”

  The agent took another step toward Sloane and Mason pushed himself in be
tween, the two nearly butting chests. What the hell was with this guy? “You’ve got no right to talk to her like that. If you don’t believe her, check her medical records! The doctor will verify.”

  The agent stared hard at Mason, arms still crossed over his chest, feet spaced shoulder width apart. “This doesn’t involve you, Mr. Rawlings.”

  “Like hell it doesn’t. Whoever those fuckers are, they tried to kill me, too. That makes me involved. And if you don’t like it, you can go to hell.”

  “Mason, sit down,” Bascom spoke up. “Please. We’re just trying to get to the bottom of this.”

  “By browbeating her? By insisting that she knows more than she’s telling you? Look at her!” Mason demanded, pointing toward Sloane, sitting in her chair, wide eyed and pale. “Do you think she wants to be involved in this? Do you honestly think that if she was involved and faking amnesia that she could keep up the ruse for so long? In front of all of you?” He snorted. “So like I said, that’s enough.”

  “Not nearly,” the agent said calmly, staring at Sloane. She stared at the agent as well, wearing a frown so deep it created a crevice between her eyebrows. Despite that, she looked more curious than angry. She turned toward him.

  “He’s right,” she said, gesturing for Mason to sit. “I hate to admit it, Mason, but what if I am involved in something?” She shook her head. “Am I really an innocent witness or am I somehow involved in all this? Why the hell would I have been out there?”

  Her eyes grew wider as she stared at the men gathered in the room, her face drained of color. “You tell me, Agent Matthews,” she said frustrated. “You tell me what the hell I was doing out there, because God knows I can’t remember! You tell me why I was there, to witness and film a murder in the middle of the night!”

  No one said anything for a moment. Then the agent spoke. “And how do you know it was the middle of the night?”

  17

  Sloane

  Sloane was going stir crazy in the safe house. Not that it was uncomfortable. It wasn’t actually a house, but an apartment, and a rather nice one at that, in a gated community. Her temporary apartment was one of four for this building. The entire community had maybe a dozen buildings, she couldn’t tell exactly. Most of them were stand-alone with four to six apartments per building.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about the interview yesterday at the police station. After another round of questioning that had frustrated her to no end, Sloane and Mason were finally allowed to leave. She asked Scott, the plainclothes policemen that had been assigned to escort her to and from the safe house, to give her a minute with Mason outside. He acquiesced, moving a short distance away but still within eyesight. He leaned against the exterior of the building, feet crossed at his ankles, arms folded over his chest, just watching them. He was a nice guy, not overly friendly but polite enough. Anyone seeing the two of them arriving or leaving the apartment would assume they were a couple. If anyone asked, Scott had their stories planned out. She worked from home and he ran his own business as an auto dealer, with odd hours. Since she’d been at the apartment, however, no one had even approached them.

  Fine with her. When she was safely ensconced in the apartment, the deadbolt and the door lock safely secured, the windows locked and blinds drawn, Scott would wait around for a little while and then leave. She appreciated not having someone actually in the apartment with her, but she was never entirely alone. Scott didn’t leave the complex entirely. He and another cop, Martin, took turns watching her building from the parking lot. Babysitting duty. She wondered who they’d pissed off to get this assignment. It had to be incredibly boring.

  Sloane also worried about Mason. Ever since she had commented about the video being taken in the middle of the night, she sensed the questions just as everyone else in the room had. She had no idea why she’d she said that. It had just fallen out of her mouth without conscious thought. It had to be something locked deep within the recesses of her mind. Did Mason still believe that she couldn’t remember, or was he starting to follow the FBI agent’s line? She could imagine the questions—from all of them. Does she know everything and just didn’t want to talk? No doubt the FBI agent thought exactly that, and maybe even the state patrol officer. Bascom appeared to believe her, but he was hard to read.

  “I’m worried about your safety,” she had said to Mason.

  “Don’t be,” he replied. “I’m not alone in my apartment that often. In fact, I have a three-day hitch coming up, so I’ll be staying there with the guys.” He glanced over her shoulder and eyed the policeman watching them. “Hopefully the cops will be able to figure out who the killer is. As soon as they do, they’ll arrest him, and you can go on with your life.”

  What did he mean, go on with her life? Was he washing his hands of her? Or was she just making a mountain out of a molehill—a big deal out of an offhand comment? Perhaps she was reading more into his comment than was intended. Besides, what life did she have to move on with? She still couldn’t remember. Much. But with her dreams at night came strange images. Were the dreams reflecting her inner anxiety or flashes of actual memory? She often bolted awake, the whispers of memories fading away before she could grab hold of anything.

  It was mid afternoon and Sloane was bored stiff. She had the television turned low to a local channel. The safe house didn’t get cable, so she wasn’t able to watch any of her favorites, not that she’d be able to concentrate much anyway. On one of the few local channels that she could pick up without cable, she idly watched game shows, sat through an insufferably boring soap opera, and then the news. She sat on the couch in sweats and a T-shirt, her bare feet braced against the coffee table, staring at the television screen, not really paying attention to the female newscaster covering a story that had something to do with health care, if the view of a hospital in the background was any indication.

  She wanted to see Mason but couldn’t exactly come and go as she pleased. Besides, he was at work on another long shift. Three days on, four days off. He was on his second day of a three-day stint, so no luck there. She glanced at the crossword puzzle book that Scott had brought her last night. He seemed to sympathize with her situation. Maybe, or he was just being Southern polite.

  She sighed and pulled her feet off the coffee table, reaching for the crossword puzzle book when she glanced at the television screen. Her hand froze halfway to the coffee table and then immediately reached for the remote control, turning up the volume.

  “ . . . have identified a body recovered from an abandoned auto parts shop on Genesee Avenue that burned last week. The body has been identified as Travis Reed, an antiquities dealer from London. Authorities believe that they have a lead on the killer’s identity, and there is some supposition that he was a hit man with ties to several criminal organizations here in the United States and abroad. Interpol, the FBI, and local authorities are working together to identify him . . .”

  Sloane gasped, her heart accelerating until she nearly lost her breath. Had the Monroe police released that information? If so, why?! She had to talk to Mason, but she didn’t have a phone. Damn it!

  “ . . . the Monroe police, working in conjunction with the FBI and the state patrol were able to identify the victim thanks to a woman who was rescued from that building a week ago. According to our sources, she spent several days in the hospital before she was released, suffering from amnesia. According to our sources, however, the woman may be regaining her memory, holding out hopes that justice for the victim’s family will be achieved—”

  “Jesus Christ!” Sloane shot up from the couch, a sense of dread coursing through her. No way in hell would the police have released that information. She was in a safe house, for crying out loud!

  She had to get out of there. There was a predetermined signal, one that Scott had given her the first day. If she needed him for any reason, she was to flash the blinds several times. She stepped to the side of the sofa and reached for the rod that adjusted the angle of the blinds. Opened
them wide, then closed. Wide open again, then closed. One more time. Did Scott see it? Was he actually watching or was he dozing in his car, bored shitless? If he didn’t come within a few minutes, not only would she be totally pissed off, but she would storm right out of the apartment and up to his car—

  A low knock on the door.

  “Sloane? It’s Scott.”

  She opened the door and let the man in, then immediately closed the door behind him. He was on high alert, one hand reaching for his shoulder holster beneath his casual jacket, his eyes quickly darting through the living room and the open dining room and kitchen area.

  “Did you see something?”

  She gestured toward the television. “I need a phone.”

  “What?” He glanced down at her in confusion.

  “The news . . . I was on the news! Let me use your phone!”

  “What? Who do you want to call?”

  “I’m cut off from everyone—” She paused. She had to talk to Mason! She glanced up at Scott, frowning down at her. “You need to talk to Detective Bascom. Tell him I need a phone. Hell, I can’t even call nine-one-one if I need to!”

  “You shouldn’t need to, Sloane. I’m here. And when I’m not, Martin is. I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.”

  Sloane forced herself to calm down, before her request was written off as a hysterical tantrum. “Will you please call Bascom and tell him I want to see him right away?” Scott didn’t move. She huffed an impatient breath, striving to calm her growing anxiety. “If you don’t call him, I swear, Scott, I’m going to walk out of this apartment complex, find a phone, and call myself!”

  She had no idea how she would accomplish that, but he didn’t call her bluff. He reluctantly pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialed, and asked for Bascom. Sloane waited, staring at the television, arms crossed over her chest, her foot tapping impatiently or nervously, whichever, on the carpet. Of course the news anchor had moved on, but the words replayed over and over in her mind. Had Bascom, or maybe even the FBI agent, released the news? Why? She was under protection! Surely the police wouldn’t do anything to put her in danger, not only to protect her, but their officers.