She could feel the storm brewing. There was a displacement to the air that she recognized from big weather at home. She hadn’t been paying too much attention to the forecast, just assumed it would be cold and rainy, with a few flakes of snow thrown in for good measure. She’d have to check it when she got back. She’d bet her life it was going to snow, and snow hard.
The path went steeply up a hill, and she followed it blindly, seething, angry with herself for rising to the bait, and wondering just what Maddee intended. Some sort of reverse psychology perhaps, or something meant to break her down, like they do in the military?
Taylor wasn’t familiar with therapy, per se. She’d done her scheduled meetings with the department shrink as required for her fitness reports over the years, but she hadn’t spent any time on the couch herself outside of this recent…situation. Despite her earlier thoughts, she had changed her mind. She hated therapy. Hated it with a passion.
The path straightened and she realized she was out of breath. She stopped for a moment, laid a cold hand on the moss-covered stone wall to her right, and looked around her. There was forest on three sides, and a smallish village in front of her. She assumed that was where the original town would have been, housing the support staff for the estate—a smith, a distillery and the like. In front of her was a small stone bridge arching over the road, and to her left, barely shielded by the large stone fence and the heavy tree cover, she could see a pile of stones.
She set off in that direction. After twenty feet, the path opened into a clearing, and she realized she’d stumbled onto the back way into the estate’s kirk. The church was missing its roof. The windows were caved in as if the eyes of the building had gone blind, and the doorway resembled a mouth crying out in agony. Another ruin, the second she’d seen on Highsmythe land. It pissed her off even more. Did these people care nothing for their past? Were they so busy with their ghosts that they didn’t bother with their souls’ shelters?
She picked her way closer, through the moss and lichen-covered gravestones. There was a clear path here, the leaves brushed out of the way. Someone had been here recently.
There was a large gravestone, not weathered and covered in lichen like the others, but still shining with the moist green mold that coated most everything inanimate in the Highlands—fences, stones, roofs, trees. Graves.
There was a small bundle of heather intertwined with roses, still fresh, at the base of the grave. She looked at the names, and everything clicked.
Evanelle Fraser Highsmythe
Beloved Wife
May 8, 1974 – December 21, 2008
James Fraser Highsmythe
Darling Son
December 21, 2008
Taken too soon. You will never be forgotten.
She was standing on Evan’s grave, and the grave of Memphis’s unborn son.
Her mind whirled. Memphis had been visiting Evan’s grave last night, right before he came to her room and made love to her.
Not twelve hours after he kissed Taylor right on the spot where his wife died.
My God. What kind of man was he?
She wondered if he visited his wife’s grave often; she knew he wasn’t in the Highlands much anymore. Surely he was just tending to her grave. But in the middle of the night?
Looking around to her right and left, she saw the detritus that answered the question for her—small candles, broken stems, pieces of paper. A proper vigil had been kept here.
She looked at the date again and realized it was the anniversary of Evan’s death.
Jesus. Today was December 21. She’d never thought to ask Memphis when she died. She knew it had been recent, but she’d never asked the actual date. And here she was, at his mercy, a pseudo-surrogate, on the death’s anniversary.
She whispered a prayer, of forgiveness, of apology, to Evan’s spirit, then backed away and headed back to the castle. She needed to get away from here.
She started down the path and saw a flash of red. She tried to ignore it, turned her head away, picked up her pace until she was almost running. But it followed, growing closer, larger, and she finally stopped and collapsed in the middle of the path, arms over her head, silently crying out, willing it, whatever it was, to go away.
She was shaking, not from the cold, but from fear. She didn’t want to open her eyes, but when nothing happened, she finally screwed up her courage and looked.
There was nothing. Just the ever-present forest of trees, the thin blanket of leaves on the ground, and the chilled air.
She got up and turned slowly in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circle.
Nothing but the gulls, soaring into the gray sky.
She knew she hadn’t imagined the red wave. It was almost like a cloth that had been draped in a breeze, flowing and rippling in the air, but luminous, more gossamer than thick. A disturbance in the air. Didn’t Memphis mention the ghost seemed borne of synesthesia to him? Was it possible that she was seeing the same thing?
Was Evan haunting her? Following her around the grounds of the estate? Coming to her in the night? Memphis had said the Lady in Red didn’t appear to anyone but the male heir to the title. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps all dead Highsmythe brides became the Lady in Red, and haunted whomever they damn well pleased.
She set off down the path, determined to gather herself once and for all. She was overly tired—a nap, her anxiety medicine and something stronger than tea was in order. She felt like an invalid, worthless to herself. She needed to get it together.
The first flakes of snow began to fall as she got to the back entrance, dancing lightly in the air. She stopped to watch their intricate ballet. Now this, this was real. Abundant water vapor causing small particles of ice, too heavy to be contained in the clouds, to fall to the earth. Science. Incontrovertible evidence. But at one time, it must have seemed like magic.
She opened her mouth and let one settle on her tongue, a cold pill that melted immediately. She took comfort in the fact that all things had an explanation, and headed inside.
The castle corridors were quiet. Deathly so. She hurried to her room, stripped off her outdoor gear, and grabbed her phone. There was a missed call from Baldwin. She took a deep breath. She pushed all thoughts of Memphis and last night out of her head. The two men were mutually exclusive in her mind. They had to be.
She dialed him back, and sank in the chair across from the fire as the phone began to ring.
“Hey,” he answered. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I’m sorry. I went for a walk. It’s starting to snow.”
Calm. Banal. Perfect.
“Whoa! When did your voice come back?”
“During a hypnosis session with Maddee James. But I’m finished with her. She’s not very nice.”
She dropped another log on the fire.
“Well, I’m glad it’s back. It sounds wonderful, darling. You’ll be ready to go home in no time. Now you can just have a little vacation and relax. Right?”
“Yeah. So long as I don’t have any more bad dreams.”
“Why are you having bad dreams?”
What to tell him about that? That she was being visited by otherworldly creatures? That she thought Memphis’s dead wife was shadowing her? Hardly.
“Overactive imagination. They’ve been telling me ghost stories. I have nothing to occupy my brain.”
“That’s what happens on vacation. I saw on the news there’s a big storm heading your way.”
“Where are you? Can you say?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know. But everything is fine. Case closed. The question is, will you be all right there by yourself?”
Oh, Baldwin. Will I? I hope so.
“Wait. How do you know that I’m going to be alone? Do you have someone watching me?” Her voice ratcheted up an octave. “What the hell, Baldwin?”
“Honey, that’s not what’s going on. Don’t be paranoid. Of course you’ll be fine. I know there are plenty of people around there.
I know Memphis isn’t there, that’s all I meant.”
“I’m not being paranoid. I hate it when you say that. How did you know Memphis was gone?”
“He called me from London. He said you suggested he ask me for help.”
Memphis. You son of a bitch.
He better keep his fool mouth shut. God, if he made some sort of sly comment and tipped Baldwin off, she’d never forgive him.
“That’s a change of circumstance.”
Baldwin laughed lightly. “Sweetie. Please, let’s not fight. It’s just so good to hear your voice again. That means you’re getting better.”
Baldwin kept chattering, seeking to connect with her. Damn, this was insane. His voice brought up all kinds of crazy emotions in her. She missed him. She was afraid to see him. She wanted his arms around her. She wanted him to stay away.
What had she done?
She loved him. She did. More than anything. And she didn’t feel like she could even tell him that, not without him getting suspicious. She needed him, not Memphis. She knew that. She’d always known that. God, she was so upset she was feeling dizzy. She took a few deep breaths for good measure.
“Honey? What’s happening up there? You sound really upset.”
“Just…give me a second,” she managed to say.
Get it together, fool. She swallowed hard, cleared her throat, and started again.
“I miss you.”
His voice warmed. “I miss you, too. No pressure, but if you want, I could come over for Christmas.”
“You’d do that?”
“I’ll do whatever you want, sweetie.”
She couldn’t help herself, she had to ask.
“Why are you helping Memphis?”
“Because I owed him a favor. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it when I see you, okay?”
“I should let you go. I’m getting sleepy.”
“In the middle of the day? Aren’t you leading the life of Riley? Lazybones.”
“It’s the talking. Head hurts, throat hurts.”
As she said it, she realized it was true. She really wasn’t feeling all that great.
“Oh, of course. I love you, honey. I’ll see you in a couple of days, okay?”
“Okay.”
She closed the phone and stared at it for a moment. She never felt quite so alone as she did when they disconnected—physically, emotionally, it didn’t matter. When she wasn’t with him, she didn’t feel whole. She knew he felt the same.
A wave of guilt overwhelmed her.
He could never know about yesterday.
She’d have to find some way to explain to Memphis, to make him understand that she didn’t love him. Not the way he wanted. Though his coldness this morning meant he might have already figured it out.
She was so tired. She just wanted to escape. Some oblivion. She found her medicine bottles, took her pills. Chased them with a beer.
Pill.
Beer.
Pill.
Beer.
Anything that let her avoid thinking about Baldwin and Memphis. About Sam, and Evan, and the ghosts of dead babies.
The hours passed. She was so very tired. She decided to go ahead and take a quick nap. Maybe some sleep would sort her system out and her voice would be back when she awoke.
She drew the curtains and bolted the door. The room wasn’t as dark as at night, but it was dim enough that the outside light wouldn’t interfere in her sleep.
The bed was soft and inviting, and she curled up under the blanket, cozy and warm. She realized she’d forgotten to mention to Baldwin that today was the anniversary of Evan’s death, to go easy on Memphis. She debated texting him, but sleep was dragging her under. She’d do it when she woke up.
She closed her eyes, and was asleep within minutes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Taylor woke from her nap feeling groggier than ever. She rose from the bed and stretched, then checked the clock. It was nearly four. She went to the window and pulled back the curtains. The estate had transformed while she’d been asleep. Baldwin was right about the storm. Snow gathered in piles; there was at least six inches on the ground. It was falling fast.
She went to the television and turned it on, surfed around until she found the BBC. After five minutes the weather update came on. The storm was getting worse by the minute—there could be up to three feet of snow overnight. Airports and railways were closing throughout Scotland. Which meant neither Memphis nor Baldwin would be getting up to the estate anytime soon.
Lovely.
She turned the television back off and pulled out her laptop. It was early back in the States. Sam would be in her office, prepping for the day’s autopsies. Maybe she could catch her before she got lost in the land of the dead.
But Sam didn’t come back right away on the chat, which meant Taylor had already missed her.
Oh, this was for the birds. All she had wanted was to get away, and now look at her. She was alone in a castle in Scotland, locked up in a snowstorm, desperately trying to reach the people in her life who’d apparently gotten on with things. Like she couldn’t handle herself alone.
Maddee’s voice rang in her ears: you’re here because the people around you don’t trust you anymore.
God, that hurt. She didn’t know whether to believe it was true, either. She knew people had been talking about her. About her actions. Asking questions. Maybe she was deluding herself. Maybe they all knew.
The truth of the matter was she’d taken things into her own hands and gotten Sam’s baby killed. There was no escaping it anymore.
There was a knock at her door.
She crossed the room and opened it. Trixie stood there, the ever-present tea cart to hand.
“Dr. James said as you may be feeling poorly. I brought ye tea to help. Will you be having dinner outside the room tonight, then?”
“Hello, Trixie.”
Taylor stepped aside and let her bring in the tea. It was a job for the serving maid. Taylor wasn’t sure why Trixie was continuing to handle it. But tea sounded good. It would wash the pills down just as easy as beer.
“You’re not looking well, lady, if I may be so bold.”
“I’m not feeling so well, Trixie. I think I’ll go back to bed. Thank you for the tea. I’m going to skip dinner.”
“Aye. I’ll have a maid fetch your breakfast. Just ring if you need anything.”
She lingered by the tea cart.
“Can I help you, Trixie?”
“Will you be needing me to draw a bath, or help ye with the tea?”
“No, Trixie, I’m fine.”
The woman was nervous and jumpy. What was going on?
“All right then. You sleep well. Make sure you drink your tea.”
God, this place and their tea.
“Good evening, Trixie.”
She saw Trixie to the door. The corridor was cold as ice. Tendrils of freezing air reached into her room, winding around her wrists as if it wanted to drag her outside. Taylor felt the ghost before she saw it. The cold became a wall between her and the hallway, then she blinked and it appeared.
The Pretender. Standing across the way from her.
She jerked back into the room and slammed the door. The red wave coming on. Taylor latched the door behind her, breath coming short. Trixie was calling out. Oh God, it was happening again. She was allowing another innocent to be tortured, when all he wanted was her.
She breathed deeply through her nose and flung open the door, ready to charge.
But the corridor was empty.
And Trixie was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Memphis tucked his chin lower into his jacket to avoid the wind that was blowing down the back of his neck. Visiting Frankland Prison wasn’t his favorite thing to do on a good day, much less one with lousy weather. But this was all a part of the job. Standing in line, awaiting his turn to move through the security gates into the relative warmth of the prison proper. No
special preferences for a viscount here.
His detective constable, Penelope Micklebury, was obviously miserable, her nose bright red and her teeth chattering. The day was raw, the snow building rapidly. The weather forecaster said this could be a huge storm before nightfall. He was worried about Taylor, all alone back in Scotland. He could fly back up there if needs be, but if the airports closed, the train was the only option, and in heavy weather, they too could stop running. She’d be lonely, and isolated, and probably mad at him for leaving her. At least, he hoped she would be.
The thought made him feel terrible. He shouldn’t be thinking of Taylor today. This was Evan’s day. He’d visited her last night, knelt on her grave, begged for her forgiveness. He hated that he was in love with another woman, hated that he was sullying his wife’s memory. But it had been three years. When would be the right time to move on? His heart already had. It was his head that was giving him problems.
And right now, he had to get his head in the game. They were going to interview a former associate of Roger Waterstone, now known as the prophet Urq. He’d offered to give information in exchange for consideration on his extensive sentence.
The queue began to move.
“Finally. Do me a favor, Pen. You talk. This fine young gentleman might open up to you more than me.”
“Of course,” she answered, cool and collected. He pretended not to see her smile. Letting her take the lead on the interview was a first for them. But she’d earned it. Pen was turning into an excellent investigator.
“Shall we?” he asked, pointing toward the gated guardhouse.
They moved past the gates and were admitted to the outer ring of the prison. They showed their identifications, signed forms. After five more checkpoints and innumerable corridors, they were led to a small room with a steel door.
A young redheaded guard unlocked it for them.
“He’s all yours,” the man-child said. “If he gives you any guff, just give a holler. We’ll get you out of there straightaway.”
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2 Page 115