Page 15 of Ghosts From Christmas Past

He looked her in the eyes. “It’s the case file from your parents’ murder and your attack.”

She expelled a breath. Waited.

“I thought maybe if I could show you some of the photos, it might help. Don’t worry, I won’t show you any of the crime scene photos. These were taken afterwards.” He waited for her to agree.

Dylan wouldn’t do anything that made her feel uncomfortable, but for Charlie, there wasn’t a choice. She’d do whatever was necessary to find this man.

“Charlie? Are you okay with it?”

She quickly nodded. “Yes, I want to help. Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it.”

A tender smile touched his strong mouth. “Good.” Dylan flipped through the folder and brough out a couple of photos. “We’ll start at the front of the house.” He handed her a photo. “This is the first thing you see when you enter the door.”

She took the photo. A breath slipped from her as she studied it intently. The entryway was tiled. The ceiling high above. A white light fixture hung from it. White carpet met the tile and continued up the sweeping staircase. To her left she could make out the living room. Her attention reverted to the stairs once more. The tiniest of memories broke free of its chains. The stairs. She remembered them. Charlie cocked her head to one side and kept her attention on them. Not from that day, but from when she was a child. “I remember sliding down those stairs when I was little.”

She glanced up and saw Dylan’s surprise. “You do?”

A smile broke free. “I do. I really do.” Her first real memory. She wanted more.

Dylan handed her another photo. “This is the kitchen. Do you remember anything about it?”

She stared at the massive yet inviting room. Dark cabinets. An island in the middle. Double ovens. She closed her eyes, and just for a second, a glimpse of another time snuck free. A woman with dark hair, short and curly. She’s smiling.Charlie,girl. Come help me with the pies.Her mother. She remembered her mother. “I can picture my mother making all those incredible meals here. Especially during the holidays.”

Dylan squeezed her hand. “You’re doing great. You’re remembering.”

She was, but not fast enough. “Show me the crime scene photos. I’m ready, Dylan. I can handle it.”

Dylan’s smile disappeared. “That’s not a good idea.”

What choice did she have? If she were going to try and remember that day, she needed something to spark that memory. “Dylan, I have to see them to remember,” she said gently. “These.” She held up the ones in her hand. “They are sterile. Lacking in the horror of that day. Just memories of an earlier time. I have to see the reality of what happened.”

He looked her in the eye for the longest time before he pulled out another photo. “Are you sure? They won’t be easy to look at.”

She wasn’t sure, but she had to do this. “Yes.”

He gave her the photo in his hand, and she braced herself before looking at it.

The image captured her dad’s body lying in a pool of blood, the red a sharp contrast against the white carpet. It was like an electrical current sparked through her system. Her body contracted in a physical reaction.

“Gloves. I see gloves. He wore gloves.” Her eyes shot to Dylan. “The killer wore gloves.”

Dylan confirmed with a nod. “Sheriff Lewis believed the killer wore gloves. There were no fingerprints found.”

She swallowed and forced her attention back to the photo. Her father lay face down and toward the door as if. . . “The killer was leaving,” she said almost to herself. “Something changed his mind.”

Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the opinion of the medical examiner. He believed Barlow was escorting the killer to the door when he turned suddenly and stabbed him. Barlow never had a chance to run.”

Charlie carefully scrutinized every inch of the photo, but nothing else came forth.

“Can I see another?” She waited. Saw the way he hesitated and knew the next one would be worse.

His fingers brushed hers as he passed the photo to her. His brief touch was oddly comforting. She resisted the urge to hold onto his strength.

Please help me. . . the prayer floated through her mind as if she were used to praying. She dragged in a couple of breaths and focused on the photo. The living room. A Christmas tree—the festive decorations scattered all around the room were a stark contrast to the blood splatter. Someone lay on the floor. Dark hair haloed by a pool of blood. Pale face, almost white. Eyes stared up at the ceiling without seeing anything. Her mother.

She wore a red dress that was splotched with darker shades of red. Blood.

Charlie fought back tears. Minutes earlier she’d been awash in the glow of a beautiful memory of her mother smiling and very much alive. Now she was dead.

---