J.T. Ellison - 14

Praise for J.T. Ellison’s ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS

“Mystery fiction has a new name to watch.”

John Connolly, New York Times bestselling author

“Tennessee has a new dark poet.”

Julia Spencer-Fleming

“J.T. Ellison’s debut novel rocks.”

Allison Brennann, New York Times bestselling author of Fear no Evil

“Creepy thrills from start to finish.”

James O. Born, author of Burn Zone

“Fast-paced and creepily believable … gritty, grisly

and a great read.”

M.J. Rose, internationally bestselling author of The Reincarnationist

“A turbo-charged thrill ride of a debut.”

Julia Spencer-Fleming, Edgar Award finalist and author of All Mortal Flesh

“Fans of Sandford, Cornwell and Reichs

will relish every page.”

J.A. Konrath, author of Dirty Martini

Praise for 14

“A nail-biting sequel to her debut novel, All the Pretty Girls. If you’re a fan of the genre, you’ll love 14.” —BookPage

“14 is a twisty, creepy and wonderful book … Ellison is relentless and grabs the reader from the first page and refuses to let go until the soul-tearing climax.” —Crimespree

“Ellison’s second Taylor Jackson story is precisely plotted

and crisply written, and there are several effective twists.

It’s guaranteed to elicit shivers with its cold-blooded,

sociopathic villain—and to keep readers on edge

until the last page.”

—Romantic Times, 4½ stars!

J.T. ELLISONis a thriller writer based in Nashville, Tennessee. She writes the Taylor Jackson series, and her short stories have been widely published. She is a weekly columnist at Murderati. com and is a founding member of Killer Year. Visit her website, JTEllison.com for more information.

14

Jt Ellison

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Jay and Jeff: my ribs

And as always, for my Randy

And now Snow White lay a long, long time in the coffin, and she did not change, but looked as if she were asleep, for she was as white as snow, as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony.

—The Brothers Grimm Snow White

When you’re a writer, it never feels like enough to say thank you to the people surrounding you day to day. We write the books, they make them into novels. I have several magicians I’d like to send my humble thanks:

My extraordinary editor, Linda McFall, and the entire MIRA team, especially Adam Wilson, Heather Foy, Margaret Marbury and Dianne Moggy, and the brilliant artists who create these fabulous covers!

My incredible agent, Scott Miller, of Trident Media Group.

My independent publicist, Tom Robinson, who is such a pleasure to work with and feeds me blueberry pie.

Detective David Achord of the Metro Nashville Homicide Department, a true friend and a great man.

Bob Trice, Response Co-ordinator/CERT program manager/ESU supervisor at the Nashville Office of Emergency Management, for giving me the tools to make the drowning scene work.

Laura McPherson, who taught me good journalism rules, which I in turn gleefully broke.

Vince Tranchida, for the medical expertise.

Pat Picciarelli, for giving me Long Island City and the bar across from the 108th precinct.

Tribe, for the Spanish bits.

The Bodacious Music City Wordsmiths—Janet, Mary, Rai, Cecelia, Peggy, Del Tinsley and my wonderful critique partner, J.B. Thompson, who read, cheer, suggest, support and love.

First reader Joan Huston for making all the difference, as she always does.

My darling Linda Whaley for babysitting on the rainy nights.

My esteemed fellow authors, Tasha Alexander, Brett Battles, Rob Gregory-Browne, Bill Cameron, Toni Causey, Gregg

Olsen, Kristy Kiernan and Dave White, for constantly cheering me on and making me laugh.

My fellow Murderati bloggers, who keep me honest. Lee Child, for the always spot-on advice.

John Connolly, for the music.

My parents, who always tell me I can do anything I put my mind to, and Jay and Jeff, the best brothers a girl could wish for. My parents gave me the spine, my brothers built the ribs. And my amazingly generous husband, who suffered through too many pizza nights and 2:00 a.m. loads of laundry to count. It just wouldn’t be any fun without you, baby.

Nashville is a wonderful city to write about. Though I try my best to keep things accurate, poetic licence is sometimes needed. All mistakes, exaggerations, opinions and interpretations are mine alone.

Would the bastard ever call?

Smoke drifted from the ashtray where a fine Cohiba lay unattended. Several burned-out butts crowded the glass, competing for space. The man looked at his watch. Had it been done?

He smashed the lit cigar into the thick-cut crystal. It smoldered with the rest as he moved through his office. He went to the window, grimy panes lightly frosted with a thin layer of freezing condensation. It was cold early this year. With one gloved finger, he traced an X in the frost. He stared out into the night. Though nearly midnight, the skyline was bright and raucous. Some festival on the grounds of Cheekwood, good cheer, grand times. If he squinted, he could make out headlights flashing by as overpaid valets squired the vehicles around the curves of the Boulevard.

He tapped his fingers against the glass, wiping his drawing away with a swipe of leather. Turning, he surveyed the room. So empty. So dark. Ghosts lurked in the murky recesses. The shadows were growing, threatening. Breath coming short, he snapped on the desk lamp. He gasped, drawing air into his lungs as deeply as he could, the panic stripped away by a fluorescent bulb. The light was feeble in the cavernous space, but it was illumination. Some things never change. After all these years, still afraid of the dark.

The bare desk was smeared with ashes, empty except for the fine rosewood box, the ashtray and the now-silent telephone. The room, too, was spartan, the monotony broken only by the simple desk, a high-back leather chair on wheels and three folding chairs. He opened the humidor and extracted another of the fortieth anniversary Cohibas. He followed the ritual—snipping off the tip, holding the lighter to the end, slowly twirling the cigar in the flame until the tobacco caught. He drew deeply, soothing smoke pouring into his lungs. There. That was better.

The isolation was necessary. He didn’t like people seeing him this way. It was better if they perceived him as the strong, capable man he’d always been, not this crippled creature, this dark entity with gnarled hands and a bent back. How would that image strike fear?

Not long now. Fear would be his pale horse, ridden from the backs of red-lipped girls. His duplicates. His surrogates. His replacements.

The ringing of the phone made him jump. Finally. He answered with a brusque “Yes?” He listened, then ended the call.

An unhurried smile spread across his face, the first of the night. It was time. Time to start again, to resurface. A new face, a new body, a new soul. With a last glance out the window, he snubbed out the cigar, closed up the humidor and braved the shadows. Moving resolutely toward the door, he disappeared into the gloom.