Ashe snapped, “He broke into my mother’s house after she died, turned the place into a rathole, and lived here with his derelict friends until I came home and discovered what had happened. That’s the whole story.”
“Okay, Ashe,” Taylor said, his tone conciliatory. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”
Some of the hurt drained from Ashe’s face. His gaze, a much paler, cooler shade of blue than Will’s, fell. He nodded, sighed. “I get that you have to ask these questions, but I’m tired of nobody believing me. I can’t understand why everyone is willing to give so much leeway to a lowlife like Zamarion. I thought if anyone would know I was telling the truth, it would be you.”
Ouch.
“I’m sorry,” Taylor said again. “I really am.”
And he really was, but he also couldn’t help remembering that, at least in the old days, Ashe and the truth enjoyed what one might call an open relationship.
They had reached the back of the three-car garage. A good portion of the terracotta walls was scorched and blackened. Taylor squatted down to better examine the burn marks. Modern stucco was naturally fire resistant, which could explain the lack of any significant damage. A couple of empty yards of stone drive separated the back of the garage from the thick stone perimeter walls where winter brown vines formed a dense net. The vines showed no signs of having caught fire.
Ashe said, “The firefighters figure they used a couple of wooden crates to climb over the wall, then stuffed the crates with gasoline-soaked rags and set them on fire. It was drizzling off and on that night, but even so, if I hadn’t come home early, the whole structure could have gone up in flames, including the house.”
Taylor nodded thoughtfully. “Did you say an arson report was filed?”
“No.”
“No, you didn’t say, or no, an arson report wasn’t filed?”
Ashe seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes. “There was no arson report.”
“Why?”
“I asked them—convinced the fire department not to request an arson investigator because I wasn’t going to make an insurance claim anyway.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I was afraid!”
Taylor hung on to his patience. “Afraid of what?”
“I was afraid—I knew—I’d come under suspicion.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Maybe not a place Taylor wanted to find himself, but somewhere. He kept his tone even. “Why would that be?”
“Because the house is underwater. It’s mortgaged to the hilt, and it only appraised for two thirds of the amount owed on it. Put that together with the problems I’m having with these squatters, and someone—the sheriff’s department—is liable to think I decided to burn my way out of a bad financial situation.”
Taylor was silent.
Ashe must have read his silence as condemnation. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t try to set my house on fire. Jesus. I get that you have to be objective in your line of work, Taylor, but you know me.”
Yes. Yes, he did. Or had at one time. But one of the brutal lessons of law enforcement was discovering that no one could completely know another person. Hell, you couldn’t even know for sure what you yourself might do in every single possible scenario. For better or for worse, people—even the people you thought you knew best—could surprise you.
You could surprise yourself.
“Okay.” Taylor sighed. “Let’s go inside, and you can tell me everything you know about Mike Zamarion.”
As it turned out, they didn’t talk much about Mike Zamarion.
Partly that was because it seemed all Ashe knew was that Zamarion was a “scary dude” trying to steal his house. Partly that was because Ashe had a second—or more likely a third—Mexican coffee.
“Did I get it wrong?” Ashe asked. “I got the feeling you and Brandt are together, but you’re the only one wearing a wedding ring.”
By then they had adjourned to the library, where Ashe was rifling through desk drawers in search of whatever documents he seemed to think would help prove his case to Taylor.
It was a room Taylor remembered disconcertingly well because he and Ashe had once fucked on what appeared to be the very same black and scarlet Persian rug lying before the field stone fireplace.
Fun times. His back twinged just thinking about it.
Anyway, it was a wide, comfortable room paneled in golden oak. There were several tall, arched windows overlooking the garden of cacti and succulents, and a couple of ceiling-high bookshelves at either end of the room. Not that many bookshelves and not that many books for a room known as the library. But Taylor recalled none of the Dekkers were much for reading. For sure Ashe’s amusements ran in a more sporty direction: tennis, swimming, sex. His parents had made good use of their memberships to the nearby racquet and polo clubs. They’d enjoyed less athletic activities too. Drinking, gambling, driving too fast. Those last three had been the combination that ended Ashe’s father.
“We’re not married,” Taylor answered. Engaged sounded pretentious—and it wasn’t like he and Will had set a date—but they were certainly committed to each other. Will had given him a ring. He felt married to Will. Maybe he should just give Will a ring and they could call it done?
Although maybe there was something to be said for formalizing that commitment.
Or maybe it said something that they couldn’t seem to get around to formalizing their commitment?
Nah. It was more about the expense and hassle. The very idea of trying to organize a wedding was daunting, and he knew Will felt the same. Assumed he did. Since he hadn’t pushed the idea either.
He compromised with, “But we’re together.”
“I see.”
Probably not. This wasn’t something Taylor usually gave a lot of thought. He figured one of these days, when the time was right—when they had some time—he and Will would make it official.
He said, “What about you? Anybody special?”
Ashe stopped digging through the desk drawers for a moment. His smile was twisted. “I wondered if you were ever going
