Crystal Green - His Arch Enemy's Daughter

At least Ashlyn merited concern from her mother.

She tried to not let her shoulders droop as she climbed the stairs, sliding her hand along the polished cherrywood. She felt her father watching her, but she wouldn’t peek down, wouldn’t let him know that she was aware of his stare.

She moved past the wallpaper, its design showcasing half circles floating among lines and gild, the incomplete rings seemingly reaching out to connect with one another.

Her heart smarted as she glimpsed her red second-place horse show ribbons hidden behind Chad’s treasure trove of State Championship football trophies and uniform jerseys as she passed the glass-encased trophy cabinet on the second-floor parlor.

Her mother’s door revealed a crack of light around the edges. She usually didn’t stay up so late.

Ashlyn knocked lightly and entered when urged to by a wispy, Southern-genteel voice.

The stench of medicines mixed with expensive perfume assailed her. “Hello, Mother.”

Edwina Spencer shifted beneath the silken covers of her king-size bed, knocking over a glass pill jar. It clanked against other containers. “Ashlyn?” she slurred.

“It’s me.” She strolled to the nightstand, grabbing the empty jars on the way. She placed them amid half-filled atomizers and more prescription tubes. “Feeling better tonight?”

Her mother heaved a sigh, pushing back a thinning patch of blond hair from her faded blue eyes. Her brother looked more like their mother with her china-doll fragility.

“Oh, no, Lynnie. I’m awful, simply awful.”

Ashlyn recalled the sight of her mother’s shadow by the window, but didn’t comment. “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you need me to get you anything?”

“Dear, that’s what the maid is for. She’ll fetch whatever I require.”

She waited for the older woman to ask where Ashlyn had been tonight, but she knew her mother wouldn’t say anything unless forced to. For as long as Ashlyn could remember, pills had helped Mrs. Spencer avoid life.

Instead, her mother played the guilt card. “I miss you when you’re not here, Lynnie.”

She’d heard these words time and again, especially when she’d been eighteen and ready to move out into the real world.

Ashlyn still recalled the new bedroom accessories she’d purchased with earnings from jewelry and sculptures she’d sold on the sly, the friends she’d made at college orientation day. But one well-thought guilt-trip from her mother had kept her home, out of the dorms, attending the local college instead.

“I’m so happy you care enough to stay with your poor mother. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Ashlyn tried not to cringe, tried not to think of what her life would be like if she had the courage to leave the mansion. Would she be able to get along with Sam Reno more easily if she distanced herself from her family?

“Maybe you should get some sleep, Mother.”

Two bony, vein-webbed hands shot out to clamp onto Ashlyn’s arms. “Don’t leave me.”

Ashlyn wondered what her mother had taken tonight. Valium?

She pulled back from the skeletal hands, played with her necklace. It seemed more like a collar and leash than jewelry right now. “I won’t leave you.”

The words felt like hands clutching her ankles, dragging her down into a dark hole that was cold and ragged enough to scrape off her fingernails as she grabbed for purchase.

“That’s my girl. I’m so thankful for my Lynnie.” And with that her thin-as-parchment eyelids fluttered shut, her frill-collared nightdress making Edwina Spencer seem even more breakable.

After a moment of collecting herself, Ashlyn left the room, embarking upon the lonely walk to her side of the mansion.

That night, in his box-littered kitchen, Sam stood in front of his open refrigerator, lit by its glaring bulb.

Damn the Spencers. Damn him for being unable to forget the past, the pain.

Part of him wanted to be back in D.C., away from the tangled mess of Kane’s Crossing and all the history of his family. But he couldn’t stand the thought of shuffling around the town house he’d once shared with his wife, reminding him of his shortcomings. That’s partly why he’d moved in the first place.

Now, in his new home, it wasn’t much better. He still hadn’t unpacked his belongings. The rooms yawned with empty walls and the absence of furniture. He’d gone poking around the basement a time or two, before he’d officially accepted the sheriff’s position, but Sam hadn’t wanted to disturb the graveyard-like atmosphere of someone else’s life, as represented by antique furniture and boxes filled with mementos.

The former owner had moved to a nursing home in Memphis, Tennessee, closer to his family. He’d left most of his belongings to the next occupant, obviously thinking they’d be of some use. Of course, if Sam could manage to adopt someone else’s life, that might not be a bad thing. Maybe it was even a good idea, based on the mess he’d almost made tonight with Ashlyn.

Hell, why did he even care about it? Even if Ashlyn had stirred more heat into his body than he’d felt in years, that didn’t mean squat. It was only lust—that hormone-driven Mack truck. Nothing to lose his head over.

Sam shifted, his jeans scratching the refrigerator door, as he peered at an army of beer bottles. Looked a lot like his days as a soldier, grouped together with his platoon of fighting machines, honing their discipline, dreaming of life beyond that short military stint.

After putting his days in the service behind him, Sam had gone back to college to earn a master’s degree in criminal justice. He’d then returned home to spend time with his parents before devoting himself to a career in law enforcement.

He’d been visiting Kane’s Crossing when his dad had been killed. Sam had done his best to take care of his mom in the aftermath, but it had been too little, too late.

After his mom’s death, he’d headed to D.C. to fulfill his dream of becoming a cop, of getting married and living in peace.

Thoughts of his dead wife twisted his throat until it burned. He didn’t want to think about her and their short-lived marriage. He couldn’t stand to think about the death of his own soul.

Dammit. He’d made his choices. And now he needed to live with the consequences.

He looked at the beer again, the shimmer of glass reminding him of Ashlyn Spencer’s lively gaze.

He needed to stop making bad choices.

Sam thrust shut the refrigerator door, the clink of the bottles mocking him with their glee.

On the other side of town, Ashlyn wandered from her art studio back to her bedroom. She had no patience for the paint-splattered canvas hideaway tonight. No tolerance for sitting still, running her fingers over shapeless metal, trying to conjure ideas that wouldn’t leave the darkness of her mind for fear of failing. Even so, her hands desperately needed something to do.

She bent down, peeking beneath her bed. There it was, a web-shrouded memory book.

After pulling it out, she flipped open the yellowed pages, smiling when she came across a blue jeans’ pocket from her first boyfriend, who’d torn it from his backside and given it to her on a whim. He’d moved from town the next month after the Spencers foreclosed on his family’s home.

Dried flowers, watercolor paintings, journal entries, magazine clippings… Here it was.

The red ribbon.

Ashlyn clutched it, remembering how it had comforted her beneath the Spencer High football bleachers on that October night so long ago.

At seven years old, she’d hidden in the darkness, peeking through the slats of the seats, feeling locked in the shadows of her traumatic cave memories. Beneath the bleachers, she had safely tucked herself away, becoming invisible.