J.T. Ellison - Where All the Dead Lie

Taylor caught a quick glance into St. James Park, the view at this angle like a glimpse into a Monet painting, lush and green even this late in the season. For some reason, the vision reminded her of her father. She hadn’t returned his call, and when he arrived in Nashville and came looking for her, she was going to be nowhere to be found. He’d go to Sam, but Sam had strict instructions. Under no circumstance was she to reveal Taylor’s whereabouts, nor any other details about the recent troubles. He was not allowed to be a part of her life. Never again.

Running away from her dad was childish. She’d have to face him sooner or later. Later seemed much preferable, though God knew what sort of trouble he’d manage to get himself into by the time she returned. If Win were a self-destructive drunk, he’d be as trouble-prone as a raging alcoholic with his fourth thirty-day chip and an unopened bottle of cheap brandy. As it was, his excesses ranged to quieter issues. He’d be into something, some scheme, some plan, guaranteed to be illegal, by the time she returned.

The car was turning back now, toward Mayfair. A motorcycle whizzed past them on the right, screaming around the car and cutting it off. The driver slammed on the brakes, and Taylor reeled back in her seat. Her heart began to pound, and she felt a familiar moment of panic. Her breath started to come faster, and she got that strange carsick feeling that preceded one of her attacks. Oh no, not now. Not in front of Memphis.

She closed her eyes and tried to force her mind away, but the red wash of blood covered her face, and her head throbbed in sympathetic pain. She looked into Sam’s eyes, saw her friend’s streaming tears, felt the anger and hate build in her, felt the slick metal of the gun in her hand…

Think about your safe place, Taylor. Camp. The horse. Breathe .

She took sips of air through her nose until her racing heart slowed.

She cracked her eyelids. Memphis was cursing the motorcycle rider. He hadn’t noticed. Thank God. She buried her face in her teacup, managed a full, deep breath.

She’d had just about enough serial killers to last her a lifetime.

“Are you okay?” Memphis asked. “You’re white as a sheet.”

Crap. He had noticed.

Yeah. One of the side effects. Flashbacks. Joy.

“So with all the issues you’re still having, how did you talk Baldwin into letting you come alone?”

Bribery.

“In other words, you two are getting along better,” Memphis said. His tone was neutral-not questioning or beseeching. Just asking.

She turned away from the window and back to Memphis. She took a sip of her tea.

We made up. Things are good again.

“And is it fixing things? Your voice, for instance?”

Let’s not do this, Memphis. Okay?

She wasn’t kidding, she didn’t feel like talking about her relationship with him. It was one thing to talk on the computer, but in person, it felt like a betrayal. And she wasn’t here to betray Baldwin. Away simply meant away, a little time, a little space. Less pressure on her to keep up her strong facade. She could be herself here.

She couldn’t read his look. He gave her a small smile.

Seriously, Memphis. It’s not like that.

“Ah, Taylor. Young love has its ups and downs. Oh, look-there’s my place.”

For a moment she was confused. Memphis lived in Chelsea, and they were nowhere near his posh neighborhood. But then she saw the great silver-and-blue revolving sign. New Scotland Yard on one side, Metropolitan Police: Working together for a safer London on the other. The entire judicial system of Nashville could fit into its shiny corridors. The building was massive, glass and steel and concrete; she could see the reflection of the stunning redbrick St. Ermin’s Hotel in its gleaming windows.

A lone female bobby stood guard at the front entrance, but Taylor had a trained eye. There were layers upon layers of security-a bulletproof glass barrier, cameras and tri-level turnstiles and revolving doors and electronic card readers. A surface-mounted spike system with wicked angled teeth allowed cars to pull into the garage below, but not back up lest they shred their tires. She saw submerged concrete barriers that could be raised at a moment’s notice to trap people inside, or stop people from entering.

“Like it?” Memphis asked, and she nodded. It was fiercely beautiful, very much the new London look that she was starting to get used to. The sun peeked out from behind a cloud for the briefest of moments and set the building to flashing.

“Fancy,” she said.

“Wave to Pen. She’ll be mad I didn’t bring you by. Unless you want to go in?”

She shook her head-that would be too much. Maybe on her way back out of town. She didn’t want that feeling of despair and loneliness that she felt every time she thought about work to invade her here. She was here to get away from police work, from her job, her life, her mistakes. All she wanted was a quiet place to heal. And hide.

Memphis’s mobile rang and he excused himself, murmuring into the headset. Taylor watched the people of London. It felt like New York, but with bigger smiles and a British accent. Everyone looked cold; they were hurrying about, scurrying, really. It was a blustery winter day, chilly and cloudy with heavy rain expected later in the evening.

Everyone they drove past looked so nonchalant and buttoned-down. It made her feel flashy and childish. Too enthusiastic. She’d have to remember to be more subdued-physically, at least. She had the mousy quiet thing down already.

The drive to King’s Cross Station took another five minutes. The driver deposited them and their luggage at the entrance, and Memphis produced two tickets.

“We’re in first class, and we’ve got seats on the right side of the train. It’s lovely once we get up toward the border.”

The seats weren’t crazy luxurious, as Taylor expected when thinking first class and train. They were roomier than the regular seats, only four across instead of six, a few with completely separate single two-top tables. The food was better, the drinks higher quality. And less crowded; she could see into the train car behind them at the seething mass of people crowding in. One small boy caught her eye-he stuck out his tongue at her and turned into the car with his frazzled mother scooting along right behind.

The last time she’d been on a train was the Caledonian Sleeper from Inverness to London, after a rousing tour of Loch Ness with a gaggle of rowdy teenagers. She remembered purple bunk beds, stainless steel washbasins, tea and toast to soak up their evening’s excess. They’d gotten plowed on the train (thrilled to be able to say they were appropriately pissed, in the local lingo) and disembarked with legs that wouldn’t hold them properly, giggling and swaying through the train station like a mustering of newborn storks.

Things were more seemly now that she was an adult. Their seats were reserved with a small piece of paper stuck to the top. They faced one another, with a tan plastic table in the middle.

“Forward or back?” he asked.

She motioned to the forward seat. The idea of riding backward made her nauseous.

They took their places. Taylor turned her phone on so she could check her messages, was relieved to see she had none.

And sad, at the same time. It used to be she couldn’t go five minutes without a call, but now her phone sat silent and unused. Unloved. She sent Baldwin a quick, needless text that they were on their way, and stowed the phone.

The train’s doors closed. The cabin around them was full. The movement began with a gentle tug, then built into a rhythm. Quickly, a girl with a trolley came by. Taylor followed Memphis’s suggestion and ordered tea, fruit salad and a bacon sandwich. She was delighted when it showed up-the bacon was crisp, the wheat toast warm and crunchy, and the side was a large dollop of what she first thought was barbeque sauce, but quickly discovered was HP Sauce, similar, but more peppery than what she knew. It was delicious, and she immediately felt at home. Bacon and barbeque sauce in first class on a northbound train to Edinburgh. She could get used to this.