Rachael told Evan she was Memphis’s mistress, that he hated her, that he didn’t want her or the child, then knocked her out. She put the nanny in the driver’s seat, spread her blood throughout the car, and shouldered it off the edge of the road. Time and gravity managed the rest. And since it seemed Evan had been suicidal—they had that suicide note, expertly forged by Rachael—Memphis and his family had quietly hushed things up and let it be known that she’d been in a bad accident. Their influence assured nothing more was done to investigate.
Rachael had taken Evan to the coast, off Inverness, and put her on a boat. She’d made many friends while incarcerated. And the Russian mafia in Long Island possessed a legendary cruelty. They already had the signed committal papers. A few favors, a few strings pulled, and Rachael had Evan out of the way.
The story was astounding in its simplicity and duplicity. Evan’s grave up at the kirk was exhumed, the body inside tested for DNA, matched to a woman named Patricia Cantrell, who’d been missing for over two years.
The Inverness airport was situated on a strip of land between the city of Inverness and Fort George, an English garrison built to house the English troops left in country after the Jacobite uprising of 1746. There was no more fighting on Scottish soil between the Brits and the Scots after that. Their enemies were larger, from without, not within. Like the Highsmythes and Rachael Mack. They’d never seen her coming.
They were coming now. Rachael was shackled, head bent, shuffling along like a crippled dog. Taylor refused to feel anything for her. Compassion was best reserved for creatures who could be saved.
Rachael was being transported to London for holding while the various governments decided what to do with her. It seemed to Taylor that she had shrunk, and she doubted Rachael would see the inside of a prison. She’d kill herself before she went back inside for long, Taylor was sure of it. And she was certain that she wasn’t sorry about that, either.
As if she knew Taylor was there watching, she lifted her head and stared right at her. A small smile played on her lips. She awkwardly turned her hands around within their metal braces and raised her middle finger.
Such a classy girl.
Taylor resisted the urge to return the gesture, settled for watching Rachael get loaded into a British Airways 767. She hoped she’d have a very uncomfortable flight, then dismissed her. She’d have to testify, come back to England to let them know what Rachael had done to her, but that was probably a while away.
As the plane with Rachael inside left, another pulled up. This one was a private plane, a Bombardier Learjet, specially procured by Baldwin’s covert friends.
Evan had been found, desolate and alone, fighting to keep her sanity. While she wasn’t directly mistreated, the Russian government was more than happy to keep the news of a British citizen’s unlawful incarceration on their soil quiet, and were willing to do most anything requested of them.
Memphis stood five feet away from Taylor, watching the plane arrive with breathless anticipation. He’d lobbied to go directly to Russia to get Evan himself, but was denied. Instead, he’d had to wait for her to return to U.K. soil, just like everyone else.
The Lear pulled to a stop. The door swung open and the stairs unfolded. A man Taylor didn’t recognize stood in the door, then reached behind him to give a hand to someone else.
Taylor heard Memphis suck in his breath.
Evan looked nothing like Taylor in person. Her hair was shorn. She was obscenely thin. But she gave Memphis a wavering smile, and he bolted for the stairs of the plane. She met him halfway down the steps, and they embraced, two drowning souls who’d just found a bit of flotsam in a very wide sea.
Taylor felt tears prick her eyes. This was right. This was good. The universe was realigned.
She watched Memphis, his arms around Evan, the joy on his face. She was so happy for him. Having Evan taken from him so abruptly, and to have her restored, brought back from death, was too much. She couldn’t help but feel a small gnawing at her heart. Memphis would never look at her in the same way again, not now that he had his Evan back. She wasn’t jealous, not at all, but felt the sadness of the inexplicable shift that happens in every relationship, the moments of before and after that change the color and complexity of life.
No child, but the chance at redemption. They had time to create another life. They had a future.
And so did she.
To her left, there was movement. Baldwin, dressed for the weather, stood stoically watching the reunion. He looked over at Taylor. Things weren’t right between them, not all the way, not yet. But she could hope.
Baldwin held out his hand to her.
“Come home, Taylor. Please, just come home with me. We can figure everything out there.”
That’s what she wanted, more than anything.
“I need you to promise that from here on out, if we’ve got any hope of surviving, you will be honest with me. No more secrets. No more lies. I can’t take any more deception from you.”
He nodded. “Taylor, you know everything. Everything that I know. I promise. I’ll never hold back from sharing with you again.”
She looked at the man who’d fought for her so hard, through everything, through bullets and transgressions and serial killers and false starts, the man she knew in her soul she would spend the rest of her life with. He stood so still, his face hopeful, the hand he extended more than just a chance for succor, but the opportunity of a lifetime.
With a last glance over her shoulder at Memphis and Evan, she turned to Baldwin, resolute, and took his hand, smiling.
“Let’s go home.”
*
Acknowledgments
Thanks first to my outstanding team: my dear agent Scott Miller and his trusty sidekick Alex Slater at Trident Media, my wonderful editor Adam Wilson, my awesome publicists Megan Lorius and Melanie Dulos from MIRA Books and Deborah Kohan and Anna Ko at Planned Television Arts, and all the booksellers and librarians who’ve played such a role in making these books a success.
The rest of the MIRA/Harlequin team all have my enduring thanks: Donna Hayes, Alex Osuszek, Loriana Sacilotto, Craig Swinwood, Valerie Gray, Margaret Marbury, Diane Moggy, Don Lucey, Adrienne Macintosh, Maureen Stead, Nick Ursino, Tracey Langmuir, Kathy Lodge, Emily Ohanjanians, Karen Queme, Alana Burke, Jayne Hoogenberk, Tara Kelly and Gigi Lau. I would be remiss not to thank Sheryl Zajechowski and Natalie Fedewa from Brilliance Audio for all their hard work, and the amazing Joyce Bean, who brings these stories to life so artfully and effortlessly.
Thanks also to my tribe: Laura Benedict, Jeff Abbott, Erica Spindler, Allison Brennan, Toni McGee Causey, Alex Kava, Jeanne Bowerman, Jill Thompson, Del Tinsley, Paige Crutcher, Cecelia Tichi, Jason Pinter and Andy Levy. Molto grazie to the wonderful writers and readers of Murderati, who keep me honest. Joan Huston’s gimlet eye did a great job, as always. And thanks to Zoë Sharp, who read for Britishisms and Scottishisms and helped me make Memphis a proper lord.
Many thanks to Sherrie Saint and Dr. Sandra Thomas—you know what for. Dr. D.P. Lyle answered questions on aphonia and dysphonia. Bill Sites and Jan Schweitzer, from Ward-Potts Jewelers in Nashville, turned me on to the concept of the poison ring. My Twitter Chickadees and Facebook friends kept me going when the going got tough.
Madeira “Maddee” James, BG “Trixie Gardner” Ritts and Penelope Micklebury all gave money to charity to become characters in this book. Bless you all—I can’t thank you enough for your generosity and courage. Note that these three woman are all heroes, regardless of what license I took with their names
Research for this book was extensive, including two trips to Scotland. The folks at Blair Castle in Scotland were a huge help, as were the McBeans, proprietors of the Lochardil House in Inverness and distant relations of my husband. The Glasshouse in Edinburgh got me turned onto Laphroaig, so many thanks for that. Every place we visited in Scotland was stellar—we were welcomed with perfectly Scottish weather, open arms, ready stories and delic
ious food. I can’t wait to set another book there.
I had a lot of cheerleaders while writing this book, but none so vociferous as my parents, who commiserated with every moan and congratulated every milestone. I couldn’t do this without you.
And my darling husband, who doesn’t need to read this one because I read practically every word and thought aloud as we went. Love you more, sweetie.
ISBN-13: 9781488030376
Where All the Dead Lie
Copyright © 2011 by J.T. Ellison
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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LIE TO ME
Available soon from MIRA Books.
PROLOGUE
In Which Introductions Are Made
You aren’t going to like me very much. Oh, maybe in your weaker moments, you’ll feel sorry for me, and use those feelings of warmth and compassion and insightful understanding to excuse my actions. You’ll say to yourself, “Poor little girl. She couldn’t help herself.” Or, “Can you blame her? After all she’s been through?” Perhaps you’ll even think, “She was born to this. It is not her fault.”
Of course it’s my fault. I chose this path. Yes, I feel as if I have no choice, that I’m driven to do it, that there are voices in my head that push me to the dark side.
But I also know right from wrong. I know good from evil. I may be compelled to ruin the lives in front of me, but I could walk away if I wanted.
Couldn’t I?
Never mind that. Back to you.
Truly, deep down, you are going to despise me. I am the rot that lives in the floorboards of your house. I am the spider that scuttles away when you shine light in my corner, ever watching, ever waiting. I am the shard of glass that slits the skin of your bare foot. I am all the bad things that happen to you.
I steal things.
I kill things.
I leave a trail of destruction in my wake that is a sight to behold, wave after wave of hate that will overwhelm you until you sink to the bottom of my miserable little ocean, and once you’ve drowned I will feed on your flesh and turn your bones to dust.
You’re mine now. You are powerless against me. So don’t bother fighting it.
I hope you enjoy the show.
WE FIND A BODY
The body was in the woods off a meandering state road that led into a busy, charming historical downtown. It was completely obscured from view, deeply hidden, under several pine boughs and a thick layer of nature’s detritus. Synthetic clothing was melted to the flesh, making it difficult to tell the body’s race or gender at a glance. Closer investigation showed hair that was long and a curious shade: not blonde, not red, possibly chemically-treated. The left hand held evidence of rings, possibly a wedding set, and so the body was eventually determined as female.
The shroud of melt and bough had not stopped the forever daisy-chain progression of decay. Instar maggots and adult flies delighted in their found treat. A genus party started soon after. Diptera and Coleoptera were evident three days in, paving the way for the coming colonization of Calliphoridae. Though the body was burned beyond ready recognition, the insects didn’t seem to mind; it was simply a barbecue feast to them.
Outside of this natural progression, the body lay undisturbed for two days. Birds of prey flew in long, lazy circles overhead. Cars drove past less than fifty yards away, drivers unknowing, uncaring, that one of their own lay rotting nearby.
Three Days Gone, a stray but severe thunderstorm knocked free several of the funereal branches, allowing the body to be exposed, pelted by hail breaking through the leafy canopy. The heavy rains wet the ground and allowed the body to sink deeper into the muck, where it canted on its side.
Four Days Gone, the body was ravaged by a starving coyote, forty-two razor teeth shredding everything available.
Five Days Gone, the body disarticulated, the fire and the heat and the wet and the insects and the coyote and the natural progression of things breaking it down quickly and without thought to the effects this would have on the loved ones. The idea of a non-intact body was sometimes more than people could take.
Six Days Gone, they found her.
ETHAN
“Chaos is a name for any order that produces confusion in our minds.”
-George Santayana
SOMETHING’S MISSING
Franklin, Tennessee
Now
Ethan found the note ten minutes after he rolled out of bed that Tuesday, the Tuesday that would change everything. He came downstairs yawning, scratching his chest, to…nothing. Empty space, devoid of wife.
Sutton always began her morning at the table with a bowl of cereal, a piece of fruit, and a cup of tea and read the paper, scoffing at the innumerable typos—the paper was going under, paying for decent copyediting was the least of their worries. A bowl full of cereal, a glass of milk and a spoon would be laid out for him, the sports page folded neatly by his seat. Always. Always.
But this morning, there was no evidence Sutton had been in the kitchen. No newspaper, no bowl. No wife.
He called for her. There was no answer. He searched through the house. Her bag was in her office, her cellphone, her laptop. Her license was stashed in her small wallet, all her credit cards present and accounted for, a twenty folded in half shoved behind them.
She must have gone for a run.
He felt a spark of pleasure at the thought. Sutton, once, had been a health nut. She’d run or walked or done yoga every day, something physical, something to keep her body moving and in shape. And what a shape—the woman was a knockout, willowy and lithe, strong legs and delicate ankles, tendons tight and gleaming like a thoroughbred. A body she sculpted to match his own, to fit with him.
Ethan Montclair couldn’t have a dog for a wife, no. He needed someone he could trot out at cocktail parties who looked smashing in a little black dress. And not only looked good, but sounded good. He needed a partner on all levels—physical and intellectual. Maybe it was shallow of him, but he was a good looking man, drew a lot of attention, and not only did he want his wife to be stunning, he wanted her to be smart, too. And Sutton fit the bill.
He knew they made a powerful, attractive couple. Looks and brains and success, so much success. That was their thing.
After Dashiell, she’d bounced back into shape like the champion racehorse she was, though later, when their world collapsed, she’d become tired and bloated and swollen with medications and depression, and she no longer took any interest in being beautiful and fit.
That she’d decided to start running again gave him hope. So much hope.
Spirits lifted, he went back to the sunny, happy kitchen and got his own bowl, his own milk. Made a pot of tea, whistling. Went for the stevia—no sugar for the health-conscious Montclairs, no, never.
That was when he saw it. Small.
White. Lined. Torn from a spiral bound notebook, a Clairefontaine, Sutton’s favorite for the smooth, lovely paper.
This…thing…was incongruous with the rest of their spotless kitchen. Sutton was above all things a pathological neatnik. She’d never just leave something lying about.
All the happiness fled. He knew. He just knew. He’d been all wrong. She hadn’t gone running.
He picked up the note.
Dear Ethan,
I’m sorry to do this to you, but I need some time away. I’ve been unhappy, you know that. This shouldn’t come as a big surprise. Forgive me for being a coward. Forgive me, for so many things.
Don’t look for me.
S
She was gone.
He felt something squeezing in his chest, a pain of sorts, and realized that his heart had just broken. He’d always thought that a stupid, silly term, but now he knew. It could happen, it was happening. He was being torn in two, torn to shreds. No wonder there were rites warning against this—What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.
God was ripping him apart in punishment, and he deserved it. He deserved it all.
He didn’t cry. There were no tears left for either of them to shed.
He put the note down carefully, as if it were a bomb that might go off with the wrong touch. Went to their bedroom. Nothing seemed out of place. Her brush, her makeup case, her toothbrush, all lined up carefully on the marble. Her suitcase was in the closet.
He went back downstairs to her office, at the back of the house. Doubled checked.
Her laptop was on her desk.
Her cellphone was in the charger.
Her purse was on the floor next to her chair.
Her wallet inside, the smiling DMV photo that made her look like a model.
Like a zombie, he moved back to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and got out the milk. Poured cereal in the bowl. Dropped the stevia into his tea. Sat at the empty table, stared at the spot where his wife’s head should have been.
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2 Page 124