My Sister's Murderer Read online

  His move is so unexpected, I’m taken aback. When it finally sinks in, I burst into my own tears. Why did it have to take the death of my sister for him to show me any affection? Why did he have to wait so long to remember he had another daughter?

  At that moment, all I want is to comfort him. If I could, I’d bring my sister back just to make him happy again. “I know, Dad, I know. I feel the same. There must have been foul play.”

  He moves my hand down to his chest, right above his heart, as if I’m his source of life. The feeling is surreal and overwhelming, and I get even bolder and lay my head on his shoulder.

  Maybe he’s just using me to remember what it was like to hug Ruby, his real daughter. I don’t care what his underlying motive is, but I revel in the unfathomable sensation of affection. It’s a shame, really. I’ve gone so long without a physical touch from another human—my childhood from the age of seven passed without a real hug—my heart feels like exploding from the sudden ecstasy of it.

  With my hand on his chest, I feel every tremor, every heartbeat. I feel his pain as if it’s my own. I feel his weakness, his doubt, his helplessness. Somehow, the monster I thought he was disappears and is replaced by a man who just lost the meaning of his life.

  If only…if only I were that—I kill the whispers of jealousy before they can become louder.

  Wiping his tears with the back of his hand, he peeks down at me. “I hired a PI to investigate her death,” he mumbles with a low voice as if he doesn’t want any accidental eavesdropper to hear.

  My eyes widen. “And?”

  He shakes his head in surrender. “He couldn’t find anything, nothing suspicious. But I feel something is wrong. It can’t be true. She couldn’t have done it to herself. She wasn’t a girl who’d even ponder those thoughts. You knew her as well as I did. She couldn’t have done it, could she? Someone did it to her. I’m sure of it.”

  He stares at me with his wet, expectant eyes, but I know he needs more than my approval. He needs proof. He needs to find out what went wrong and punish those who caused the end of his precious daughter’s life. That need is probably the only thing that’s keeping him from going insane.

  “Dad, I totally agree with you! She couldn’t have done it to herself. There must be a sinister reason behind it.” The more I talk about it, the stronger I believe it. Is that what the power of words is about? Ruby was smart, lively, and compassionate. How many eighteen-year-olds would dream of studying criminal law to defend wrongfully-convicted people? She was one of a kind. She couldn’t have died the way the police say she did.

  My father stills, his eyes large in both disbelief and relief. “Tara and I, we don’t have another way to search for the truth. The police closed the case. The PI wasn’t much of a help. We’ve hit a wall, but you…” He pauses, perhaps needing me to volunteer for something, but what?

  I frown, curious and cautious. “I?”

  “Yes, you, Ashley. You can do it.”

  I stare hard at him, wanting to resolve the mysteries of his mind because at this point I’m clueless. “I can do what? What exactly do you want me to do?”

  “Go find whoever did this to your sister.”

  His explanation sends me into another round of puzzlement. I’m afraid of angering him with my denseness if I probe him for more clarification.

  My silence encourages him to speak more and to go into more detail as to the way I can help. “Ruby called us almost daily. Tara kept a diary of what Ruby told her since she started college. So we know where and with whom she hung out. If you could trace the places she’d been and get to know the people who may have in one way or another caused her death?”

  A chill washes over me, raising the hair on my arms with a distinct sense of being watched. I glance over my shoulder and see Tara’s red eyes boring into me although she’s on the other end of the room. She’s studying, analyzing, hoping. She knows what my dad is asking of me. What she’s not doing is participating in his request in person. She’s used to ordering me around, doubling my chores to her heart’s content. The towels weren’t folded well. Start over! The wine glasses aren’t bright enough. Wash them again! Asking me for a favor when I have an option to say no must feel harder than pushing a train.

  Although she knows that I know, she can’t turn her eyes away and pretend to be unaware of my conversation with my father. She’s watching me like a hawk, my answer possibly bigger than life for her at this moment. I admit it’s a satisfying feeling having her at my mercy for once.

  As much as I’d like to use my right to turn her down, I give my father a reassuring nod, my eyes still on Tara. “I can’t promise I’ll find out the truth, but I’ll try and do my best.”

  I won’t do it for him or for Tara. I won’t even do it for Ruby. I’ll do it for myself, to clear my conscience. I’ve been cruel to her for no good reason. She did nothing wrong. Her mother and our father caused the tragedy of my mother’s death. She was the only one who didn’t make me feel like an outcast.

  Other than my mom, Ruby may have been the only one who truly loved me. It’s a shame it took her death for me to realize it. She was a dream of a sister to me, while I was no different from my father in my neglect of her.

  Finding the truth behind her death is possibly the one way I can apologize to her, the only way I can finally show my love for her.

  Nineteen years late, but still…

  Ch 2

  Knight In Shining Armor

  Boulder, Colorado. The town of the trust-fund college kids and Subaru-driving, fit soccer moms. Not exactly the city I’d choose to live in after living in Colorado Springs and Denver. The high rents wouldn’t allow me anyway, but if I had the money, I’d pick Denver anytime.

  After the two-hour drive without any issue, my car complains with a yellow light on the gauge on Highway 36, a couple of miles before Boulder. It’s my dad’s car actually. His beloved Subaru Legacy GT Limited Edition. From the outside, it’s humble and unassuming. One needs to drive it to see its potential. It’s no racing car, but it can go from zero to sixty in about 7 seconds.

  My father has a newer Chevy, two Toyotas, and old Honda that all still run without any problems, but the Legacy has always been his favorite which is why I asked him to give it to me during my investigation into Ruby’s death. I wanted to see if his heart was really in it or if he was just going along with what Tara wanted. He didn’t hesitate as he fished his car keys out of his dress pants and handed them to me, looking at me with his eyes that were begging, “Take good care of it.”

  I know his love wasn’t due to the strong horsepower of the car or how fast it could go. He had about a million memories associated with the car and Ruby. Ruby learned to drive with it at the young age of ten. Sunday afternoons, he’d take her to rural roads east of Springs, and the two would drive for hours, coming back home still on a high. It was their special bonding activity. Asking for the car was my little way of revenge. I can’t help myself. My hurt will always be the primary force in my interactions with my father.

  Along with the car, he wrote me a check for one hundred thousand dollars. Just like that and with an assurance of more if the need arises. After living from paycheck to paycheck and barely making ends meet, I feel a sense of security for the first time in my adult life. Although my once-meager bank account is thankful for the extra zeros, I promise myself never to touch it except in an emergency and continue with my frugal lifestyle based on coupons and manager’s specials.

  My fat savings account is likely to lose a few grand if the yellow sign on the gauge ends up being something serious. I panic slightly when the engine gives off a soft whirring noise as I try to go faster. When I ease into the right lane and start slowing down only to hear the noise getting angrier, my panic intensifies. Having to pull off the highway after dark is absolutely one of my top-ten nightmares, but it seems it’s either that or cause a massive chain-accident.

  The car coughs and comes to a slow, dragged-out stop even when I press dow
n on the brakes harder than usual. It’s not a good sign. My heart slams against my chest.

  Turning on the hazard lights, I rummage through my handbag for my phone. Apparently, cheap isn’t always good. My archeological Samsung blinks with a low-battery alert, although I charged it last night and never used it all through the day. I’m afraid the five-percent-full battery will only last me for a one-minute call to a roadside mechanic.

  The problem is I don’t have a number at hand to dial. I need to google one, and that’ll eat up more battery.

  This must be karma punishing me for demanding my father’s favorite car or a heavenly sign warning me off my detective game ahead.

  After typing AAA Boulder, CO into the search engine, I rummage through the glove compartment and find a flashlight. When I get out of the car, flashlight in hand, I nearly go into cardiac arrest from the cars flying past me.

  I pop the hood and hold the flashlight above the complicated engine, hoping the problem will jump out at me. Aside from the perfect cleanliness of the inside, nothing really catches my eye. Then again, I don’t have the eye of a mechanic.

  A chill wind blows, and I sneeze. Great. The last thing I need is to catch a cold. My phone finally flashes with the search results, with AAA Boulder’s local phone number at the top. The battery bar drops to three percent with a beep. I tab on the phone number. My breathing speeds up.

  Beep. Beeep. Beeeep.

  As soon as the call goes through, I jump in without letting the person on the other end speak. I don’t have the luxury to listen to their long introduction.

  “Hello, hi. I need—”

  An automated voicemail welcomes me before my phone’s battery dies with loud, incessant beeps. No! I can barely contain myself. The one time I need its help urgently, the one time it could make a difference—it chooses to leave me stranded on a highway. I want so badly to throw it to the asphalt and hear it smash underneath the speeding cars.

  I can’t call a mechanic or a tow service. I can’t exactly leave the car here and walk the last five miles to my destination either. Aside from the fact that it’s a highway, with this night chill, I’ll probably fall dead of frostbite before I reach the city limit.

  My only option is to take the risk and drive, hoping the noise is a minor issue and not some major problem that can end up causing the engine to blow. What if it’s related to the brakes and I lose control of them? My breath catches in my throat. Where are the police cruisers when you really need them?

  Even getting back into the driver’s seat isn’t risk-free. Closing the hood, I practically glue myself to the side of the car as I inch toward the door. My heart is going a hundred miles an hour when I remember a recent deadly accident up in Longmont, where a woman had to stop by the highway to re-buckle her naughty kids, then on her way back to the driver’s seat, she was hit by an oncoming car. She went flying completely across the road from the force of the impact. My knees wobble. I hold both my phone and the flashlight in one hand while reaching for the door.

  I spot a yellow Corvette about a quarter mile away zigzagging through the gaggle of cars. It’s definitely made to attract attention and go fast, and with its current speed right now, it practically has accident written all over it. I’d bet money that the driver is either a trust-fund baby racing with his other wealthy friends while high on some expensive, exotic strain of weed or a recently divorced CEO in midlife-crisis mode.

  Just when I start praying it won’t slide into the right lane, it moves effortlessly between two perilously close cars, playing roulette with the angel of death. I hold my breath and fumble with the car door. Before I can open it, though, I jump from the loud sound of the Corvette coming to a sudden halt behind my car.

  My edgy nerves give way, and I shriek. I consider myself lucky for not accidentally jumping into the oncoming traffic in my panic.

  The blinding headlights have me shading my eyes. I can hardly make out the tall silhouette getting out.

  “Hello, there. Problem with the engine?” He walks straight toward me in measured steps, as if wanting to prove to me he’s not under the influence. Good.

  As my eyes start to focus, more details of the man jump out at me. He’s definitely not at the age for a midlife crisis, though I can’t vouch for his marital status. He looks young enough to be a trust-fund baby, though. Designer shoes, slim-fit khakis, gray leather jacket, crisp blue shirt…he’s several tax brackets above me without a doubt, even with the recent addition to my savings account.

  When he stops a foot in front of me, my eyes move up and up, a long way, until I locate his face, and I’m blown away anew by another shockwave. His is possibly the most handsome face I’ve ever seen, dead or alive, on TV or in real life. Big blue eyes, gentle and intriguing in equal parts, take up residence on a masculine, wide-jawed face. His lips stretch with a smile, revealing a perfect set of pearly whites and projecting an aura of warmth.

  He’s gorgeous and startlingly friendly. Between his eye-candy appearance and his hot car, he takes my breath away.

  In my meticulous study of the gorgeous stranger, I realize I have yet to answer his question. “Hi,” I mumble, my voice hoarse as I wrack my brain for more words. “My car…it was making a weird noise when the engine revved, and the brakes felt off.”

  His eyebrows rise while contemplating my answer. He makes a “hmm” noise. “Would you mind if I take a look at it?”

  “No, not at all, I’d appreciate it.” My teeth chatter, either due my nerves, shock, confusion, or the cold. I have a slight suspicion he’s attributing my nervousness to his effect on me. His wider smile is a sign he is. Damn. The worst are the gorgeous men who know they’re gorgeous. He must have seen the same tongue-tied, awkward confusion every time he talks to a girl.

  With a nod, he walks past me around the car to the front. My eyes immediately return to their thorough study of the rest of him.

  In my attempt to judge his financial worth, I completely missed the well-built body beneath his expensive clothes. Not only are his shoulders broad like those of a swimmer, but his lats on the sides of his torso are massively developed and reach down to a thin waist. His whole back forms a perfectly sculpted triangle shape. His pants aren’t form-fitting as I originally thought, but his thighs are so muscular that his pants must stretch to cover them.

  I won’t even begin with his buttocks. Firm and rounded, they’re mouth-watering. It takes an enormous amount of self-control for me to resist the urge to check them out as he lifts the hood of my car and bends down to examine the engine. Way too much distraction.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This intense attraction and overreaction…I’m not the butterflies-fluttering-in-the-belly type of girl. I avoid good-looking, wealthy men like the plague. I avoid men. Period.

  It must be being stranded on a highway. The darkness, the cold, and the danger of being run over by a car are playing tricks with my head. Tomorrow, he’ll be all but forgotten.

  He cranes his head and reaches out his hand to me, a playful crooked smile on his plump lips. I shiver inwardly.

  He lowers his eyes to my chest, and I feel the urge to cross my arms around my torso. I feel exposed as if he can see through me, my inappropriate thoughts, and my naked body beneath my clothes. I’ve never felt this way with another man before.

  He’s unabashedly staring at my chest now. “Can you pass me the flashlight?”

  “Oh.” Oh! He was just looking at the flashlight I’m holding close to my chest. I hope he can’t see the intense blush on my face. “Here.” I push the flashlight into his hand.

  He switches it on and runs the light into the hidden corners of the engine, not leaving a spot unchecked. Creases form between his eyebrows as he focuses his full attention on the engine as if nothing else around him matters.

  He flashes the light for a second round of examination across the engine before lifting his eyes back to me. My heart does a little flip-flop at the eye contact. My God, his eyes are an amazing hue of
blue.

  “Everything looks shiny and clean. Did you buy the car recently?”

  It’s my turn to frown, but I don’t think the creases between my eyebrows look as lovely and inviting as his. “I didn’t buy it. I just recently got it from my father. Why?”

  He nods in understanding. “Sometimes sellers clean up the engine really nicely to hide a problem.”

  “My father worshipped this car. It’s just his usual cleanliness.”

  “I don’t see any leaks in the engine. The coolant and brake master cylinder are filled above the minimum levels. The power steering reservoir looks good too. Let’s check underneath the car.”

  I just keep nodding my head because I have no idea what those parts are for, and he seems to know what he’s talking about. He kneels down in front of the car to investigate some more. He even goes so far as running his hands underneath the car without worrying about dirt.

  At this point, I stop worrying about the car. Like magic. It’s incredible what a pretty face can do.

  He stands up and dusts his hands off on his jeans. His eyes shimmer with a naughty grin like a little kid who’s about to play a prank. “I was thinking…this would make a lovely story to tell our grandkids.”

  “Excuse me?” Grandkids? Our grandkids? I must have heard the whole sentence wrong.

  “Yeah, you, a beautiful damsel in distress and me, the knight in shining armor coming to your rescue. It’d make for a lovely story for anniversary dinners and Christmas Eves.” He laughs, but his eyes remain persistently on me as if trying to gauge my reaction.

  I didn’t hear much after beautiful. And, my face must be beet red.

  Noticing my deer-in-the-headlights sudden freeze-up, he clears his throat and gets back to business. “No sign of leaks underneath either. Could you rev up the engine for me, please?”

  My head is still spinning from his earlier joke. Unable to talk, I just make a sudden u-turn toward the door, feeling a little less anxious about the cars driving past us. I settle back in the driver’s seat and press on the accelerator while contemplating the fact that he actually seems to be flirting with me.