On A Night Like This (Callaways #1)

up I couldn't remember everything that had gone down. There were pieces from my memory missing, and they still haven't come back."
    "Well, isn't that convenient? You don't remember, so you can't be blamed."
    He didn't know this cold, angry woman. She was a far cry from the fun-loving wife and mother he'd spent time with the past two years.
    "It's not at all convenient," he countered. "When did you last talk to Kyle?"
    "The day before he died."
    "Was he worried about anything?"
    Her gaze narrowed. "Like what?"
    "I'm not sure. He seemed distracted days before that last jump. He wasn't talking to anyone, and that wasn't like him. He wasn't normally quiet."
    "He didn't seem any different to me, and if you're trying to find some reason to blame him, then that's despicable."
    "I'm not trying to blame Kyle," he said forcefully. "I'm just trying to figure out what happened."
    "If Kyle was distracted, it was because he wanted to be done with smokejumping. He wanted to be with Robbie and me. But he was feeling bad about leaving you behind, Aiden. He said you needed him to stay grounded."
    He frowned. "That's what he said?"
    "Yes. He told me you were reckless, that you took too many chances, just what everyone else has been saying about you. But he had to be there to support you, because that's what he'd been doing his whole life." She paused. "You didn't like that he got married, that he had a wife and a child. I broke up the dynamic duo, didn't I?"
    "I was happy for him," he said. "And for you."
    "Well, now neither one of us has him." She shook her head. "Kyle wanted to leave early. He wanted to get down here to start a new chapter in his life, but he told me that you wouldn't let him go. You needed him to stay to the last day. He didn't know it would be the last day of his life."
    "He never asked me that," Aiden said, beginning to wonder if what Vicky was telling him had any credence at all. "I swear to you – he never asked me."
    "Just go, Aiden. And, please, don't come back."
    She shut the door in his face. He stared at it for a long moment and then slowly walked back to his truck. He felt like he'd gone ten rounds in the boxing ring, and every punch Vicky had thrown had landed hard.
    But some of what she had said did not ring true. And if she wasn't lying to him, then Kyle must have been lying to her. Why?
    He now had even more questions than he had before. He needed facts, cold, hard facts.
    Who better to help him than someone analytical and objective, and allegedly a really good investigator?

Chapter Nine

    Sara walked down the stairs to the basement of her father's house feeling more than a little wary. The smell of smoke still lingered in the air, and in her mind she could see her father's broken body lying on the cement floor. He was lucky he hadn't cracked his head open.
    When she reached the last stair, she glanced around the dark, shadowy room. Nothing unusual jumped out at her. There were the gardening tools she'd expected to find, along with some paint cans and a couple of folding chairs. Moving further into the room, she noted the water heater and just behind it a filing cabinet. On top of the cabinet was a cardboard box.
    Frowning, she wondered if her father had rushed downstairs to retrieve some paperwork, but to her knowledge, he'd always kept anything of importance in his study. But he had come into the basement for a reason, a reason worth risking his life for, and she needed to figure out what that was.
    Pushing herself forward, she picked up the cardboard box. It was taped shut, not particularly heavy, but it felt like there was something inside. She set it down on the ground and pulled open the top drawer of the two-drawer filing cabinet. It was empty. The second drawer held tax returns. She flipped through the folders, noting that the dates went back ten to fifteen years. There was nothing more current in the drawer.
    Her tension started to ease. She could see her father wanting to retrieve tax returns. He was a stickler when it came to receipts. But then again, they were very old. She placed the box back on top of the cabinet and looked around for some scissors. There were gardening shears in a nearby bucket. Good enough. She slit the tape, opened the top, and stared at her own face.
    The box was filled with photos, the very first one the portrait shot she'd taken as a senior in high school. It was not her favorite shot. She'd felt uncomfortable with the purple drape falling off her shoulders, and