J. Ellison: The Cold Room

With a sigh, she snapped off the bathroom light and went into the bedroom. She’d find a way to fix things; she always did.

Baldwin was already in the bed, reading through the news clippings on the Macellaio case. A special evening edition of the La Nazione had been printed. The front-desk clerk, knowing they were working the case, had kindly held the paper for them, handed it over with a silent smile when they retrieved their key. The headline screamed II Macellaio Interferito- The Butcher Caught. He had dark smudges under his eyes and she felt an unbearable fondness wash over her. They needed a break, someplace with no killers, no specters.

Baldwin rustled the print, the covers tossed carelessly across his legs. At least, he was pretending to read. He was watching her. She could feel his eyes on her, felt the warmth and love in them. She crawled onto the bed, put her head on his chest.

“We need to sleep. At least for a little bit. Put those away.”

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” he said.

She gave him an embarrassed smile. “There’s nothing to forgive. I didn’t mean to be a brat. And I’m, well, that’s neither here nor there.”

“Still thinking about Memphis?”

She looked at him in surprise. How he read her mind sometimes was unnerving.

“Taylor, it’s blatantly apparent to anyone within a fifty-mile radius. I’ve never seen a man fall so hard. He’s going to keep pursuing you.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. He’s just…just…a player. I would be a notch in his belt, that’s all.”

“Well, I’d certainly prefer you not becoming a notch in his belt.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. He holds no interest for me. I can handle him.”

“I doubt he’s going to limit his pursuit. I did some more digging into his background. He didn’t have an easy time of it. Being a peer and working for the Met isn’t a match made in heaven. He took a lot of heat at the beginning, didn’t fit in. Then he lost his wife, you know, and a child. She was eight months pregnant when she was killed in a car accident. Her name was Evan, and she looked an awful lot like you. After Evan died, he threw himself into the Met, rose through the ranks. He’s a damn good investigator, but he’s haunted. You’re bringing it all back to the forefront for him, and he’s ready to snap.”

“He’s told me all about it.”

“He’s a fragile man, despite what he may have told you. He’s been in treatment, and is grasping at anything that might get him back on track.”

“So you think I’m just a reminder of his dead wife? Thanks for that.” Her temper flashed briefly; she tamped it down. “I’m just ready to get back to Nashville. At least there I have a handle on my enemies.”

“Are you running from him, Taylor?” There was a strange tone in his voice, a lingering vulnerability that made her narrow her eyes.

“Baldwin, what is the deal? Are you honestly that jealous?”

He tossed his book to the side. He was angry; she could feel the control he was measuring out. “Damn straight I am. What, you think I’m going to sit back and watch some guy sweep you off your feet?”

She realized that he knew exactly what had been going through her head. All the little what-ifs that had been creeping around the edges of her mind. No wonder he was thinking about moving back to Nashville, where he could keep an eye on her. It was time to put those thoughts away, for good. She took his chin in her hand, made him look her straight in the eye.

“Yes, honey, Memphis is attractive. Yes, he’s funny and urbane.”

“And the son of a peer. Don’t forget that part,” Baldwin said.

“And the son of a peer. But sweetheart, you have to know that the thought never crossed my mind. Not the way you think it did.”

“So you’re admitting you thought about it?”

“Baldwin. Stop. I’m not thinking about anything. No one in the world matters more to me than you. Memphis is just a silly little boy. You’re a man, and the only one I love. You’re the only man for me. Don’t ever think otherwise. You hear me?”

“I saw him kiss you,” he said.

So that’s what all this was about. She’d wondered, that night in the piazza when she turned the corner and he was there. It felt contrived, and she assumed Baldwin had witnessed the whole scenario.

She tipped his face toward hers. “That was unconscionable of him, and I’ve told him so. I have made it very, very clear that I am not interested. I was hoping with this case partially wrapped he’d go back to London and be gone. Now it looks like he’s going to be around, at least around you. I will talk to him again, warn him off. If that doesn’t work, you have my permission to beat him up.”

She smiled, snuggled up next to him, rested her head on his shoulder. He put his arms around her and she was struck by how tightly he held her. As if he thought she might actually slip away. Surely he couldn’t seriously think that she wanted out, wanted to go with the British playboy.

Of course he thought that, Taylor. He saw how Memphis was looking at you. He saw him kiss you, for Christ’s sake. He must have seen you respond, even if it was brief. He’s not an idiot. He’s just human, a man like any other. In some ways.

“Baby.” She kissed him on the neck, softly. “I’m sorry.”

He accepted the invitation. He rolled over on her, grabbed her hair roughly in his right hand.

“You’re mine, Taylor. Don’t forget it.” His lips crushed hers, and took her breath away with the intensity. He kept a hold of her hair, had his other hand between her legs, was kissing her as if it was the last kiss they’d ever share, and she had no idea how much time had passed, just knew that she was almost there, almost, when she heard the phone jangling two feet from her ear.

“Ignore it,” she said, breathless, urging him on with her hips.

“It’s yours.” He stopped, inches from entering her, breath ragged with the effort.

Groaning, she wiggled out from under his hips far enough to grab her cell.

There was static, then emptiness. A void surrounded her.

That tinny, childlike voice, the one from her answering machine, from the earlier call, spoke. “I’ll see you soon, Taylor.”

The line went dead, and she started to shiver. It wasn’t over. It would never be over.

T aylor had spent the overnight flight home from Italy thinking. Her life, her world with Baldwin, her father and the letter she’d been towing around for days. She’d made some decisions, small steps toward taking her life back. They landed right after the dawn, the warm sunlight of Nashville enveloping her in calm. She felt safest when she was home.

The house was still standing when the cab dropped them off, tired and a little giddy from lack of sleep. Sam had taken care of stopping their mail, arranging to have it held until they returned. Delivery would begin again today. The first thing Taylor did when they pulled in the drive was march to the mailbox with the letter to her father in hand. It was time for her to say goodbye.

She pulled open the door to the mailbox. It wasn’t empty. Sitting quietly on a white note card was a bullet. Chills crept across her body, and she backed away like it was a poisonous snake.

“Baldwin?” she called.

He came to her immediately, sensing the strain in her voice.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

She pointed. “In the mailbox.”

He wheeled around and looked, cursing under his breath when he saw the bullet.

“Camera and gloves,” he said, voice low and controlled with fury.

She fumbled in her briefcase, pulled out a single latex glove and her camera. Baldwin took them from her grimly, started taking pictures.