J.T. Ellison - Where All the Dead Lie

“Miss Jackson?” Trixie called again.

Act like nothing’s wrong. Answer the door.

Taylor shoved the file back in the desk and strode to the door. She swung it open, saw Trixie’s anxious face and wondered if perhaps she was wrong. She looked…frightened. And then relieved.

“Oh, so you are all right then. Good. I was worried. I’ve got fresh ginger tea and some ginger biscuits. That should settle your system. The storm is very bad. Do you have enough wood by your fire? I’m afraid it will be days before we can get out.”

Taylor let her wheel the tea tray in. She’d be damned if she ate or drank anything that she didn’t prepare herself for the rest of the time at the castle. But for now, she didn’t need to let them know that she was onto them.

She pointed at her throat so Trixie would assume she couldn’t speak. Being known as functionally mute was going to have its advantages after all.

“Och, lassie, I’m not surprised. Made a mess downstairs, yes you did.”

Taylor pointed to the side of the bed, mimed throwing up.

“There, too? I’ll send along one of the cleaning lassies. Can I be getting you anything else now? Would you like Cook to make you a breakfast?”

Was that a hopeful note in the hateful old besom’s voice?

Taylor shook her head, held her hand over her stomach. Pointed at the tea cart. Forced herself to smile. She was stuck in a fucking blizzard with a woman who may or may not be a part of a plot to derail her mind. Super.

“Perhaps ye’ll be feeling well enough to join Maddee and Roland for luncheon, then.”

This was said without guile, just a making-conversation-with-the-inmates tone. But it was critical information. Maddee was still here. There were witnesses. She would be safe.

Taylor shrugged and signaled to the door. She needed to be alone. Needed to figure out her next steps.

Trixie, long adapted to clues from her employers, nodded once and excused herself. Taylor locked the door behind her.

The first thing she did was add some of the tea to the bottle she was keeping, then she tossed the rest of the cookies into the toilet and flushed them.

Itching for an evidence bag, she set the pot of tea back on the cart and fetched a fresh bottle of Highland Springs water from the bar. The cap was secure, the seal hadn’t been broken. She felt reasonably sure she could drink it without repercussions.

She drank straight from the bottle in case there was something in the glasses. Thirst slaked, she rummaged in her carry-on for the bag of trail mix she’d stashed there in case the plane’s food was awful. It was still factory sealed. She could live on water and trail mix for a day or two, no problem. It would tide her over until Baldwin could get her the hell out of here and back to Nashville.

With her feast now laid before her, she tried Baldwin’s phone. Voice mail again. God, of all the times to miss her call. He’d been frothing at the mouth to find out what was going on, now he didn’t answer her?

She looked at the email from Memphis again.

He was a sick, sick man.

Her phone rang. She grabbed it, hoping for Baldwin. It was Sam.

“You won’t believe the email I just got from Memphis.”

“Taylor, wait. I need to tell you something. You said Maddee James gave you melatonin, right?”

“Right. She said I really needed to sleep, and thought I’d do better on something all-natural.”

“What does it look like?”

“Long clear capsule with tan grains. Horse pills.”

“That could be anything, Taylor. You can’t take anything else she gives you.”

“God, you think Maddee’s in on this, too? Why would she want to hurt me? That makes no sense. She’s supposed to be helping me.”

“Some help. What’s the last thing you remember from yesterday?”

“I don’t remember sending you that note, that’s for sure. The last really solid thing I remember was having a beer with Maddee. And I got horrifically ill shortly afterward. She did pour my beer for me, I think… You don’t think all three of them are trying to kill me?”

“I don’t know, Taylor. But at least one of them is. You have to get out of there.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Taylor pulled back the curtain. The world was white, the wind whirling the snow around.

“Because I’m in the middle of a whiteout blizzard.”

“Where is the illustrious Dr. James?”

“Somewhere in the house. Trixie just came to bring me more tea, and dropped that Maddee and Roland wanted me to join them for a late lunch.”

Taylor could hear tapping. Sam was on her computer.

“What are you looking for?”

“Just checking on Dr. James’s license. Which, from what I can see here, doesn’t exist. Where did you say she’s from?”

No license? “Long Island.”

A few more taps. “Sorry, sugar. Bad news. There is no one named Madeira James with a license to practice psychology, psychotherapy, nothing.”

“But do you need one to practice in the U.K.?”

Tapping again. “Absolutely. She’s not a part of the British Psychological Society, the governing body there. She’s not listed anywhere that I can find. It doesn’t mean she wasn’t trained, but she can’t hang out a legitimate shingle.”

“That’s just great news. Wouldn’t Willig have picked up on this?”

“Why would she? You told her the woman was qualified in EMDR. She sent the files.”

“Memphis told me she was.”

“Another strike. Do you still have internet access, with the storm?”

“Yeah.”

“Check her out.”

“Sam…”

“Seriously. None of this smells right, Taylor. You’re still not thinking completely clearly, or else you’d have already put this together.”

“I’m finding it hard to believe that the whole lot of them are in on a conspiracy together.”

“I don’t know, Taylor. But we don’t know these people.”

“I know Memphis.”

“No. You don’t. You can’t know him. It takes more than a few emails and chat sessions to get to the heart of a person. And I know you well enough to know that you haven’t let him in yet. Not all the way. So Taylor?”

“Yes?”

“If you did sleep with Memphis, which I’m starting to doubt you did, it’s okay. The world won’t end. You and Baldwin aren’t married. Just…don’t do it again, okay?”

That was as close to forgiveness as she was likely to get, from anyone.

“Yes, Mom. Talk to you later. And Sam? Thanks.”

“Love you, honey.”

“Love you, too.”

Madeira James didn’t exist. She was a ghost.

Taylor looked everywhere she could think. Criminal records first, but no one with that name had run afoul of the law. She moved on to all the regular databases she had access to-credit card companies, tax rolls, real estate. Nothing.

Maddee was from Long Island. She hadn’t come to Scotland until she was twenty-one or so; Memphis had told her that. There had to be something, some record. But there was nothing.

Taylor had friends in New York who could look deeper into the files there, but that would take too long. She felt like time was running out.

But she knew someone who could break through all the barriers, seen and unseen. If there was information to be found, he could access it.

She grabbed her phone and dialed up Lincoln Ross.

He answered in a quiet mumble. She’d woken him, but he would understand.

“It’s Taylor.”

“I know. What’s up?”

“I need your help.” She outlined the story for him. Again with the barest of essentials, skipping many of the finer points. If she were wrong, she didn’t want her team around her to think she’d gone off the deep end.