J.T. Ellison - Where All the Dead Lie

“You have to stop worrying about that girl. She’s tough as nails. Now get to work. The files have been sent to you. I expect a briefing Wednesday morning.”

The screen went black. Atlantic was gone.

Well. Dinner was certainly going to be interesting.

Taylor went around to the back of the house, through the gate, so she could steal one last moment of peace before she went inside. She stopped midway through the yard and stood looking out over the woods. She’d seen a deer the other night, and the damn owl that had taken up residence in their river birch had hooted in alarm. The doe, soft-footed and sweet, seemed utterly unconcerned with the frantic owl and nibbled delicately at a dried corncob Taylor had thrown out for her.

To have that calm confidence back, that was what Taylor wanted.

She smiled at the memory, said, “Mmm, Mmm,” twice more for good measure, then took a deep breath and entered the house. The downstairs was deserted. Baldwin must still be up in his office.

The answering machine was blinking, so she grabbed the notepad they kept next to the phone and hit Play.

Three messages.

The first was from a reporter at Channel Four, after her for a comprehensive sit-down exclusive interview.

She deleted it before the girl stopped talking. No way, no how, was she going to do that.

The second was Dr. Benedict’s office, needing some arcane insurance detail. She wrote down the information and deleted the message.

The last one shook her.

A voice at once familiar and alien emanated from the speaker.

“Um, hi, Taylor. This is your dad. Listen, um, I’m getting out today. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. It’s early. Good behavior. This place has been getting crowded, so they sprang a few of us that weren’t considered a ‘threat to society.’ I’m heading down to Nashville and I thought that we could, I don’t know, talk. I’ll be at the house. Call me.”

He rattled off a number and the machine went dead.

Taylor stood frozen, staring at the phone as if it had sprouted a mouth and started talking. Win. Winthrop Thomas Stewart Jackson IV. Her illustrious father, getting out of the federal penitentiary early for good behavior? Son of a bitch. Really, this day was just getting better and better.

Barely able to contain her annoyance, Taylor wrote a note about her dad’s release and mounted the stairs. Baldwin was sitting at his desk, fingers flying over the keyboard. The widescreen monitor was on. She got a quick glance of what looked like a sumptuous office before Baldwin realized she was there and hit the screen saver. More secrets. She almost turned around, but she honestly couldn’t face the idea of her father alone.

“What’s up?” Baldwin asked, leaning back in his chair, all nonchalance.

She thrust the note at him. Baldwin read it, then simply stared at Taylor with his mouth open for half a second. Shaking his head, he pushed back from the desk.

“Wine. Food. Let’s go make dinner. The rest comes later.”

That sounded good to her.

Silent steps down into the kitchen. Baldwin disappeared into the basement for a few moments then returned with two bottles of wine.

“Zinfandel or Nero d’Avola?” he asked. She raised two fingers.

“Nero it is.” He popped the cork on the wine, inserted the aerator, poured them each a glass. She took a sip. The wine was rich and thick, and she felt herself relax a bit. She took her Ativan, let Baldwin see her do it. She was going to be a good little girl. She also snuck another Percocet, just a little something to keep the edge of the headache at bay for a while. Maybe she’d actually be able to talk tonight. She kept hoping that her voice would suddenly start working.

Carbonara was on the menu for the evening, and Taylor sauteed pancetta while Baldwin got the pasta boiling and whisked the eggs and cheese together. She adored the dish. Really-how could you go wrong with Italian bacon and eggs?

The meal was ready in ten minutes and they sat together at the table, grinding pepper, sipping wine, both trapped in their own thoughts. Between the salt, the wine and the drugs, the thoughts of her happy place, Taylor felt her throat relax. She recognized this sensation. It generally preceded her actually speaking a few words aloud.

“My dad,” she managed to get out before everything tightened up again.

Shit.

“Hey-that was great.” Baldwin said. “I can only imagine what you must be feeling right now. I can make some calls, but it sounds like he’s already been released. Do you want to see him?”

Taylor had thought about that while she cooked. She shook her head, mouthed no.

“Okay. Listen, Atlantic called. I have to handle a case for him. It might mean some travel, and you know how this goes-it might be overseas. But I’m not thrilled about leaving you here by yourself, especially going into Christmas. So what do you think? If I have to go, do you want to come with me?”

The thoughts came fast and furious. Seriously? Had he been looking at her chat history? That was awfully convenient timing. She’d already been prepared to accept Memphis’s offer; hell, she was going to broach the subject as soon as they finished eating. The phone call from her dad had fully cemented it. Getting over four thousand miles away from her father wasn’t just a super idea, it was an absolute necessity. The sessions with Willig could be put on hold for a few days, especially if Memphis had a friend she could work with. There was just one little hiccup. How was Baldwin going to react to her news?

“Mmm…Mmmemphis,” she said, then stopped, uncertain of how to explain the situation properly.

Baldwin sat back in his chair, searched her face. He finally shrugged. “I was afraid you’d say that. But hey, at least you said it. The consonant practice is helping, yes?”

An olive branch. She could tell he was fighting an internal battle; his face was smiling, but his eyes were cold. Baldwin was not a fan of Memphis Highsmythe.

She hadn’t mentioned that she and Memphis had been communicating by email or iChat almost daily for the past few weeks. It hadn’t seemed necessary at the time; it was harmless stuff. Mostly harmless. But would Baldwin see it that way? Well, hell, did Baldwin have any right to dictate who she did or didn’t talk to? No. She melted and got her back up at the same time-being upset with Baldwin took so much energy. She just didn’t know how to make things right.

Honestly was the only path she had right now. If it cost her everything, so be it.

Taylor grabbed the notepad.

We’ve been chatting online. He’s been a big help. He’s offered to have me come to Scotland, work with a psychologist friend of his. This sounds like good timing all around, don’t you think? You can work on your case and I can work on getting this resolved once and for all. Now that we know about the EMDR and its promise, maybe I can turn things around.

She slid the note to Baldwin, watched his face turn four shades of red before he sighed, then smiled and looked up.

“Hell, I don’t blame you for reaching out to Memphis. I haven’t exactly been easy to talk to these past few weeks.” He grabbed her hand, knocking over the pepper mill in his vehemence. “I’m sorry, darling. I’m sorry on so many levels. I’m not sure what I can do to make this up to you. Please, please, will you forgive me?”

Taylor felt the tightly banded chain on her heart crack a bit. This was what she wanted, right? For him to apologize. To offer to make things right. They were better as a team. Together they could conquer anything. But apart, they were two lonely icebergs, drifting silently toward a certain doom. She pushed Memphis’s face from her mind. Later. She’d worry about him later. She just missed Baldwin so much, even though he was right there with her.