Ashes Never Forget

Chapter Six- The First Lie

The maintenance worker kept his head down as he pushed the cart through the corridor.

His uniform was spotless.

His identification badge hung neatly from his chest.

No one stopped him.

No one asked where he was going.

Hospitals, hotels, police stations...

People rarely noticed the ones responsible for cleaning them.

That was exactly why he had chosen the uniform.

He reached the service elevator and pressed the button.

The doors opened almost immediately.

He stepped inside alone.

As the elevator descended, he pulled the leather-bound diary from beneath the folded towels.

E.W.

His gloved fingers brushed across the initials.

A faint smile appeared on his face.

"You should have burned this years ago," he murmured.

The elevator doors opened into the underground parking garage.

A black SUV waited near the exit.

The driver never got out.

The maintenance worker climbed into the back seat.

Without a word, he handed over the diary.

The driver placed it inside a black briefcase.

"Was anyone suspicious?" the driver asked.

"No."

"And the girl?"

"Still talking."

The driver started the engine.

"She doesn't remember anything?"

"Not yet."

The SUV rolled toward the exit.

"Keep it that way."

Upstairs, Detective Hayes stood outside the interview room.

His thoughts were racing.

Victor Hale.

Eleanor Whitmore.

Richard Whitmore.

The missing diary.

The mysterious woman.

Nathan's fingerprints.

Every clue pointed in a different direction.

Yet somehow...

They all circled back to the Whitmore family.

Officer Brooks approached with a tablet in her hand.

"The DNA lab has started processing the hair."

"How long?"

"A few hours."

Hayes nodded.

"What about Richard Whitmore?"

"We've confirmed he never left Whitmore House after the wedding."

"Who confirmed it?"

"His personal security team."

Hayes frowned.

"I want independent confirmation."

Brooks hesitated.

"You think they're lying?"

"I don't know."

"But I'd rather trust evidence than employees."

Brooks made a note.

"I'll request traffic camera footage around the estate."

As she turned to leave, Hayes stopped her.

"And Brooks..."

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't tell anyone we're looking into Richard."

She looked surprised.

"Not even the chief?"

"Not yet."

She nodded.

"I understand."

Hayes returned to the interview room.

Elara was standing by the window, watching raindrops slide down the glass.

She turned as he entered.

"Any news?"

He closed the door behind him.

"I need to ask you something."

She waited.

"Did your grandmother ever mention the year 2004?"

Elara frowned.

"Why that year?"

"Just answer the question."

She searched her memory.

Childhood birthdays.

Family dinners.

Christmas mornings.

Then...

A single image surfaced.

She was eight years old.

She had wandered into her grandmother's study looking for crayons.

Eleanor had been sitting at her desk.

Crying.

In front of an old photograph.

When she noticed Elara standing there, she quickly hid it inside a drawer.

"What happened?" Hayes asked.

Elara blinked.

"I remember asking why she was crying."

"And?"

"She smiled."

A sad smile.

"The kind adults use when they don't want children to worry."

"What did she say?"

Elara closed her eyes.

The words came back with startling clarity.

"'Some promises,'" she whispered,

"'are so expensive that they keep collecting payment long after they're made.'"

Hayes felt a chill.

"What did that mean?"

"I didn't understand."

"I was only eight."

She opened her eyes.

"I never asked again."

Hayes remained silent.

Some promises...

He wrote the sentence in his notebook.

It didn't sound like grief.

It sounded like regret.

And regrets usually had names.

Just then, Brooks knocked once before entering.

She looked directly at Hayes.

"Sir..."

"What is it?"

"The traffic cameras around Whitmore House are ready."

Hayes took the tablet.

He pressed play.

The footage showed the estate's front gate.

Wedding guests arriving.

Staff vehicles leaving.

Everything appeared ordinary.

Until 8:17 that morning.

A dark blue sedan stopped outside the gates.

It remained there for less than thirty seconds.

The gate opened.

The car entered.

Hayes paused the video.

"Can we zoom in?"

Brooks enlarged the image.

The driver's face was partially visible through the windshield.

Elara leaned forward.

Her breath caught.

"I know him."

Hayes turned.

"Who is he?"

She didn't answer immediately.

She couldn't.

Because the man behind the wheel...

Was Victor Hale.

The room went completely still.

Hayes looked from the paused image to Elara.

"You know him?"

She stared at the screen, her breathing shallow.

"I... I shouldn't."

"What do you mean?"

"I've never met Victor Hale."

"You've said that from the beginning."

"I know."

She took a step closer to the monitor.

"But now..."

She pressed a hand against her temple.

"...I recognize his face."

Hayes didn't interrupt.

He had seen this happen before.

Sometimes a memory wasn't gone.

Sometimes it was buried beneath shock.

"Take your time," he said quietly.

Elara kept her eyes on the image.

"I've seen him."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

Her voice trembled with frustration.

"I can see his face."

"I just can't remember the moment."

She closed her eyes.

A faint scent drifted into her memory.

Fresh lavender.

Old books.

The crackling of a fireplace.

Then—

A man's laughter.

Warm.

Gentle.

She opened her eyes suddenly.

"The library."

Hayes frowned.

"What library?"

"My grandmother's."

The words came out almost as a whisper.

"I was little."

"Maybe seven or eight."

"I remember hiding under the reading table because I was playing."

She swallowed.

"My grandmother wasn't alone."

Hayes leaned forward.

"Who was with her?"

"I couldn't see clearly."

"Why not?"

"The tablecloth reached the floor."

"I only saw..."

She stopped.

"What?"

"A pair of brown leather shoes."

Hayes looked at the image on the screen.

Victor Hale was wearing brown leather shoes.

Elara continued.

"I remember hearing a man's voice."

"What did he say?"

She squeezed her eyes shut.

The memory came in broken pieces.

Not sentences.

Fragments.

"We can't keep this from her forever."

Another fragment.

"She deserves the truth."

Then another voice.

A woman.

Her grandmother.

Calm, but firm.

"Not until she's old enough."

Elara's heartbeat quickened.

"There were three people."

"Three?"

"Yes."

"My grandmother."

"Victor..."

She caught herself.

"I mean..."

"The man."

"And someone else."

Hayes narrowed his eyes.

"A third person."

"Could you hear them?"

She nodded slowly.

"Not clearly."

"But..."

"What?"

"The third person was angry."

"How do you know?"

"He slammed something onto the table."

The sound echoed through her memory.

A heavy thud.

Glass rattling.

Then silence.

Hayes quickly wrote everything down.

"What happened next?"

"I crawled out from under the table."

"And?"

"My grandmother saw me."

Elara smiled sadly.

"She looked frightened."

"Frightened of you?"

"No."

"Frightened that I'd heard something."

"What did she do?"

"She sent me upstairs."

"And the men?"

"I never saw their faces."

She paused.

"Except..."

Hayes looked up.

"Except what?"

"I remember one hand."

"What about it?"

"There was a signet ring."

Hayes froze.

"A ring?"

She nodded.

"A large silver ring."

"It had..."

She frowned.

"...a raven carved into it."

Hayes stopped writing.

His expression changed instantly.

Brooks noticed.

"Sir?"

Hayes closed the notebook.

"The Raven Crest."

Brooks' eyes widened.

"That's impossible."

Elara looked between them.

"What is it?"

Hayes didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he walked to the observation window, thinking.

Finally, he turned back.

"The Raven Crest isn't a family."

"It isn't a company."

"So what is it?"

His voice lowered.

"It was the symbol used by a private investment group."

"They disappeared almost twenty years ago."

Brooks added quietly,

"After one of the biggest financial scandals in the country's history."

Elara frowned.

"What does that have to do with my grandmother?"

Hayes looked directly at her.

"I think..."

He spoke slowly.

"...that's exactly what we're about to find out."

A knock interrupted the conversation.

An officer hurried into the room.

"Detective."

Hayes turned.

"What happened?"

The officer's face was pale.

"The owner of Ashcroft Rare Books..."

Hayes' stomach tightened.

"What about him?"

"We found him."

"Alive?"

The officer hesitated.

Then he lowered his voice.

"No, sir."

"He was found dead."

The same handwritten message lay beside his body.

'Some stories should stay buried.'

The words hung in the air.

Some stories should stay buried.

Detective Hayes didn't speak for several seconds.

"When?"

The officer checked his notebook.

"About forty minutes ago."

"Cause of death?"

"The medical examiner is still on scene."

"But..."

He hesitated.

"It appears to be a single gunshot wound."

Hayes nodded once.

"Secure the building."

"I don't want anyone entering or leaving until Forensics clears it."

"Yes, sir."

The officer hurried away.

Hayes grabbed his coat from the back of the chair.

"I'm going to Ashcroft."

Brooks looked at him.

"I'll come with you."

He shook his head.

"No."

"You stay here."

She frowned.

"Sir—"

"If this case is what I think it is, I need someone I trust watching Miss Whitmore."

Brooks understood.

"I won't leave her alone."

Hayes turned to Elara.

"I won't be gone long."

She nodded, though her face was clouded with worry.

"Will you tell me the truth when you come back?"

He paused.

"I'll tell you whatever the evidence tells me."

It wasn't the answer she wanted.

But it was the only one he could honestly give.

Forty minutes later...

Ashcroft Rare Books stood at the end of a narrow cobblestone street.

Its windows were dark.

Yellow police tape stretched across the entrance.

Uniformed officers stepped aside as Hayes arrived.

A forensic technician met him at the door.

"Detective."

"What have we got?"

"The victim was found behind the main counter."

"No sign of robbery."

Hayes slipped on a pair of gloves before entering.

The smell of old paper mixed with gunpowder lingered in the air.

Books lay scattered across the wooden floor.

Not overturned.

Searched.

Every shelf seemed to have been examined in a hurry.

Whoever had come here wasn't interested in money.

They were looking for something.

Hayes walked toward the counter.

The bookstore owner lay on his back, one hand stretched toward an open drawer.

His eyes were still open.

Frozen in surprise.

Beside his right hand was the handwritten note.

Some stories should stay buried.

Hayes crouched beside the body.

"What was in the drawer?"

The forensic technician pointed.

"Nothing now."

"But you can see the dust outline."

Hayes looked closely.

A rectangular space had been left clean while the surrounding wood was covered in dust.

Something had been stored there for years.

Something roughly the size of a hardback book.

"It was taken."

"Looks that way."

Hayes stood.

"What about security cameras?"

"They were disabled."

"Before the murder?"

"About ten minutes before."

Professional.

Calm.

Planned.

Hayes slowly scanned the shop.

His eyes settled on an old grandfather clock near the back wall.

It had stopped ticking.

The hands were frozen at 11:47.

He walked over.

The pendulum wasn't moving.

He reached out and gently touched the clock.

It shifted slightly.

Too easily.

He frowned.

"Move this."

Two officers carefully pulled the clock away from the wall.

Behind it was a narrow steel door.

Hidden.

Locked.

The forensic technician looked surprised.

"We never saw that."

Hayes examined the lock.

"It wasn't meant to be found."

A locksmith was called immediately.

Within minutes, the old lock clicked open.

The hidden room was barely large enough for one person.

Shelves lined the walls.

Most of them were empty.

Only one item remained.

A sealed cardboard archive box.

Hayes carefully lifted the lid.

Inside were dozens of faded documents.

Letters.

Property deeds.

Newspaper clippings.

Photographs.

And resting on top...

A black-and-white picture of three people standing in front of Whitmore House.

Hayes picked it up.

His pulse quickened.

He recognized one face instantly.

A young Eleanor Whitmore.

Standing beside her...

Victor Hale.

And on Eleanor's other side...

A much younger Richard Whitmore.

All three were smiling.

As if they had once been inseparable.

Tucked beneath the photograph was another folded note.

Unlike the others, this one wasn't a threat.

It was addressed to someone.

To whoever finally opens this box...

Hayes unfolded the paper carefully.

The ink had faded with age.

He read the first line aloud.

"If you're reading this, then one of us is already dead..."

His phone rang.

Officer Brooks.

He answered immediately.

"Brooks?"

Her voice was urgent.

"Sir, you need to come back."

"What happened?"

"It's Miss Whitmore."

Hayes' heart skipped.

"What about her?"

"She isn't here."

He froze.

"What do you mean she isn't there?"

"She disappeared."

Hayes tightened his grip on the phone.

"How?"

Brooks' breathing was uneven.

"The security cameras went black for exactly ninety seconds."

"When they came back..."

"...the interview room was empty."