Out of the Ashes by Valerie Sherrard Page B

Make yourself at home.”
    I listened carefully as he headed upstairs and was pleased to hear several squeaks when his feet touched some of the old wooden steps. Reminding myself to stay alert so that I’d hear the same sounds when he was returning, I grabbed a book from one of the shelves and sat on the floor beside the spot that held the scrapbooks. All I’d have to do was put them back when I heard him coming and pretend to be looking through the book.
    Still, my heart was pounding as I reached for the first volume of family mementos. It held a collection of cards, many of them handmade by Greg, the kind you do in school for special occasions for your parents. I flipped through it quickly and stuck it back in place, taking out another.
    In the pages of the second book were pressed flowers and leaves, tiny bags of sand, and similar tokens from nature. Among these were snapshots of Greg’s parents, sometimes both of them, sometimes just one or the other. Greg appeared in a few too, and each page was neatly labelled in fine script with details of the date, place, and occasion. It was like a trip through day-to-day events that had been part of the family’s life: a day at the beach, a walk through the woods, and vacations they had taken.
    I fared no better in the third book, finding more pictures, ticket stubs from movies or social events, napkins from restaurants, and other such souvenirs. There were now only two scrapbooks left to look through. Iglanced nervously toward the stairs, listening. To my relief I heard water running, which meant Greg must still be in the shower.
    A surge of excitement ran through me when I opened the next book and found that it contained newspaper clippings. The first few were their engagement and wedding announcements, then there were some that must have been about friends or relatives of the Taylors. There was a clipping about Mr. Taylor’s appointment at the university, and a few about organizations in which they were involved. I turned the pages impatiently.
    â€œBlaze Claims Life of Local Woman.” At last! Something about the fire! I scanned through the columns, reading the story as quickly as I could. It was a pretty factual account, telling only that the fire had broken out during the night, that father and son had escaped but that Mrs. Taylor had not. It ended with a statement that the cause of the fire was under investigation.
    I turned the page and the next heading leapt out at me: “Arson Suspected in Fire at Professor’s Home.” The beginning of that story basically recounted some of the details in the first story, but then it went on to say that investigators believed the origin of the fire to be suspicious.
    â€œWe’re not ruling anything out at this point,” the fire marshal was quoted as saying, “but evidence points toward the fire having been deliberately set.”
    I drew in a deep breath, finished the rest of the story, and then looked across to the next page. The heading there read simply “Culprit Found!” As my eyes shifted to the first line in the body of the story I was stunned to see that it began with the words “Greg Taylor”.
    â€œMay I ask what you’re doing, Shelby?”
    The scrapbook went flying out of my hands, and I jumped to my feet and whirled around to find Mr. Taylor standing in the doorway. I’d been so intent on listening for Greg’s approach that I hadn’t even thought of his father. Now he stood there, his face a cold mask of politeness. In spite of that, I could see anger in his eyes.
    â€œI was just waiting for Greg,” I stammered, feeling heat rush to my face.
    He didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes moved to the scrapbook, now lying open on the floor. I started to bend down to get it, but he lifted a hand up, like a little stop sign, and moved towards it himself.
    Culprit Found. Greg Taylor...; The words pounded in my head even as I tried to think of some