CA 35 Christmas Past by Debra Webb Page A

the door.
                This was a setup.
                Walking wasn’t an
option. She ran for the stairwell. Plunged down the four
flights of stairs. Her ankle stung but not enough to slow her down.
                When she burst into the
lobby, the front desk had already called security.
                A male cameraman and a
female reporter were still shouting questions at Fewell even as security hauled them toward the door.
                “Come on, Jason,” the
woman urged, not ready to give up her quest, “tell me why you came back here
after what happened three years ago.”
                The security guards
were making quiet promises to have her hauled into the police station if she
didn’t cooperate and leave the premises.
                Fewell stood there, unmoving, unblinking.
                “Do you still feel
responsible for Cynthia’s death?” the reporter shouted, getting in one more jab
before the guards got her out the door.
                The few guests that had
wandered in during the commotion stared at Fewell ,
whispering among themselves . One
even going so far as to point.
                “Come on.” Molly took
Jason by the arm. “Don’t give them anything else to talk about.”
                He glared at her, his
face pinched in pain.
                “Come on.” She tugged
at him. “Jason,” she urged. “Just…come on.”
                Molly hauled him to the
elevator since it was closer than the stairs and the doors on one had just slid
open. When the doors had closed, she asked, “What happened?”
                “It doesn’t matter.”
                The hell it didn’t. “It
does matter.”
               
                He sent a deadly look
down his shoulder at her. “I do not want to talk about this.”
                “Okay.”
                The silence thickened,
making the elevator feel as if the walls were closing in.
                When the doors opened,
he waited for her to exit.
                A
gentleman to the end.
                She shoved the key card
into the lock and opened the door to their suite. “I’m filing a complaint with
the manager.” She kicked off her boots.
                “It wasn’t the staff’s
fault.” He wandered to the window and stared out at the darkness.
                The view in Aspen was
beautiful, that was true. But he spent way too much time at that window. Like a prisoner who longed for freedom.
                “I know you said you
don’t want to talk about the things that reporter said, but sometimes it helps
to talk.”
                “Not for me.”
                “Well—” she moved in
next to him at the window “—if you’re referring to therapy, that doesn’t count.
Not in my book.”
                He glanced at her, his
face grim. “It’s supposed to help.”
                “Sometimes it does,
sometimes it doesn’t.” She leaned against the window frame and studied him.
“But it always helps to get it off your chest with someone who’ll really
listen.”
                “Lady—” he shook his
head “—my team, my family, they’ve all been there for me, but no amount of talk
has changed anything.”
                Molly took the plunge.
“Who’s Cynthia?” She held her breath.
                “I guess you’re one of
the few who didn’t read about it. Or watch it on the entertainment news shows.”
                She shook her head.
“No. Sorry.”
                He braced a hand on the
window frame. “Cynthia O’Neal was my girlfriend. We came here three years ago
for the Christmas holidays.”
                “Oh my
gosh .” Molly shook her head. “I feel terrible for