“I want Jesus in my heart.” With trembling legs and a racing heart, she’d spoken those words to her pastor when she was eight. Even now, she remembered the pull on her heart, that hard first step, then almost running down the aisle to warmth and safety.
Accepting Jesus had been real that Sunday. With childlike faith she had placed her trust in him. Then, when her dad left, he took her faith with him. Could she get it back? That was the question. One she needed to answer.
But not today. Today, answers to who wanted to kill her waited to be found, answers that she was almost certain lay in her recent past. She set the Bible on the bedside table and picked up her notepad, wincing at the slight movement. Her body wasn’t recovering nearly fast enough.
Taylor read the notes she’d written last night. The sense that she’d missed something worried her brain like a dog worried a bone. She turned to a blank page and started free writing, letting her hand write whatever popped into her mind.
Hurting. Body. Heart. Nick. Why Beth Coleman? Dad alive? Dead? Was he trying to kill me? Why? Clowns nightmares daddy death Wilson why didn’t Jonathan and Ethan want me to find dad? Guns. Andy dead Dead Dead DEAD.
With a jolt she paused and looked at the last line. She’d thought the nightmares started when Michael dumped her, but they’d returned earlier, right after the hostage situation that went bad. Had that day of violence triggered the nightmares?
She flinched at the images that bombarded her. Andy Reed, pulling the trigger, his stepfather falling to the ground, a hail of bullets hitting the boy. The memory returned as fresh as the day it’d happened, just before Thanksgiving. And that night she’d had the first nightmare about her dad and the clown chasing her. Everything else happened in sequence afterward.
Taylor glanced at her free writing again. Why did everything start with the Reed shooting? And why didn’t Jonathan want her to find her dad? Even Ethan opposed her search. She closed her eyes and let her mind roam.
They didn’t want gossip stirred up . . . they were protecting Mom’s feelings . . . her feelings . . . they did something wrong that day . . . her dad was dead . . . Yates knew and blackmailed them twenty years ago . . . her father died and they covered it up.
No. No! This was her uncle and Ethan she was thinking about. And wouldn’t she have known somehow that her father was dead? Besides, she had his letter. She stilled in mid-thought.
Taylor jerked the nightstand drawer open and took out the packet of letters her mom had given her, then found a copy of the letter from her dad in her purse. Side by side, the two appeared to be written by the same person. She peered closer. The s was off, and the t wasn’t quite right. Wait. There was one more letter, the one he’d mailed right after he left. She sorted through her files, found it, and compared it to the one that came yesterday. Maybe . . . no, there was no maybe about it. The handwriting in the last two letters was identical.
“With Ethan’s talent for forgery, there’s no telling where he could be.” Jonathan’s words at dinner that night. And if the letter was a forgery, then her dad didn’t send it.
She tried to dismiss her suspicion.
And couldn’t. Including herself, Ethan was connected to at least four people in the case. Her dad, Scott, Yates. Which meant he probably knew Yates’s partner, Lieutenant Wilson. Maybe Yates had been blackmailing Ethan, and her uncle had nothing to do with it.
Stop it! Ethan Trask was a respected lawyer, recently appointed to a judgeship. Scott was in Ethan’s office when he collapsed. But there was no way Ethan was her stalker—whoever sent the gifts and photos, whoever hurt Beth Coleman was in Newton. He could’ve hired someone. Scott. Or maybe Zeke Thornton. Zeke had opportunity—both in Newton and here in Logan Point . . . No, not Zeke.
Taylor squeezed her eyes shut against the chaos in her head. This was crazy. She pressed her fingers to her face. She needed a break—maybe bounce some ideas off Livy.
The faint aroma of coffee tickled her nose. Mom was up. She slipped out of bed. A cup of coffee, breakfast, and then she’d come back with fresh eyes. Maybe she could even patch up things with her mom about the spa and set a time to go shopping later this week.
She picked up her cell phone, and her yearning to hear Nick’s voice blindsided her. She could call . . . just to see how Scott was. Taylor scrolled to his name and clicked on it. While it rang, she sorted through her bag and came across the articles he’d given her before everything went downhill. She pulled out the envelope and laid it on her bed as the call went to Nick’s voice mail. Taylor hung up and tossed her phone on the bed.
He most likely saw who was calling and didn’t want to talk to her. Not today. Probably not ever.
34
Mr. Sinclair.”
Nick opened his eyes and straightened up. He must have dropped off to sleep after a nurse finally came and told him Scott had stabilized. His eyes focused on the smartly dressed young woman sitting across from him in the waiting room. She smiled and handed him a card.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you. I’m Eileen Crandall, and I work with the hospital as a patient advocate, primarily dealing with insurance issues.”
“I don’t understand. I gave Scott’s card to the admitting clerk.”
“Yes, I know. She was supposed to make a copy of it for his file, but I can’t find it. Your brother isn’t showing up in the insurance company’s system. May I see it again?”
“Sure.” He opened Scott’s clothes bag, dug the billfold out, and handed her the insurance cards.
“I’ll be right back with these.”
While he waited, Nick glanced at the worn leather wallet. He’d meant to go through it earlier to see if he could find anything that would give him insight into Scott. Nick sorted through the wallet, finding Scott’s student ID at Conway and a debit card. No credit card, though. Another ID that said Scott was twenty-one. He slipped it out, and a photo came with it. Scott with someone who looked vaguely familiar. Nick studied the man. Long hair, jeans, a T-shirt, and sunglasses. He turned the photo over. Digger and me. So this was Digger.
“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair.” Eileen handed him Scott’s cards. “Someone had keyed his identification number wrong.” She smiled an apology. “And the nurse said you could go back if you’d like.”
Nick stuffed the insurance cards and photo in the wallet and hurried down the hall. He tiptoed into Scott’s room and sat beside his bed. On the way in, he’d been told he could stay only if Scott’s heart rate stayed normal. He couldn’t risk asking about Digger. He glanced at the monitor. Pulse beat a steady eighty-two. Good. And his color was better. Nick touched his arm, and Scott’s eyes jerked open.
“It’s just me,” Nick said gently.
Scott grabbed Nick’s hand. “Ta—”
“Don’t do anything to get me kicked out.”
Scott nodded and sagged against the bed. For a minute, he lay with his eyes closed, breathing. He moistened his lips. “E-than,” he whispered.
Nick leaned in close. “Do you want Ethan?”
His eyes jerked open again. “No!”
Nick shot a side glance at the monitor. Scott’s heart rate was climbing. “Calm down,” he urged. “Remember earlier, we were going to try writing your words? Would you like to do that?”
Scott nodded, and Nick took out the pen and paper he’d brought with him. “I know you’re trying to tell me something about Ethan. Start with that.”
He held the pad for Scott, and Scott made a few marks, and the pencil slipped from his hand. Nick looked to see what he’d written. Chicken scratches. A frustrated growl erupted from Scott’s throat. Disappointment rimmed his eyes.
“Eth—” Scott was trying to talk again.
“Ethan?”
Scott nodded. “Ta—”
“Taylor?”
Scott grabbed Nick’s wrist and bobbed his head. “Help . . . her.”
“You want me to help Taylor?”
His eyes lit up. “Yes.”
His speech was i
mproving. “Go slower.”
Scott nodded and relaxed against the mattress. He held up the hand with IV tubing. “E-than,” he whispered. “In-su-lin.”
Puzzled, Nick frowned.
Frustration welled in Scott’s face.
“Put in-su-lin here.” He waved his hand again.
Nick gaped at his brother. What he said wasn’t possible. He leaned forward. “Ethan was here?”
Scott nodded again.
“In this room?”
Another nod.
“You must have dreamed it, Scott.”
“No, no, no! Here!”
“Take it easy.” He patted Scott’s shoulder.
“Tay-lor,” he whispered, his voice dropping off.
He bent even closer. “What about Taylor?”
“Danger . . . Ethan . . . he’ll . . . hurt Taylor . . .” Scott’s eyes drooped shut.
No! Don’t go to sleep now. He shook Scott but got no response, and Nick slumped back in the chair. Obviously, his brother had dreamed Ethan tried to kill him. He looked up as a nurse entered the room.
She checked his IV. “Has he drifted off again?”
“Yeah. I was hoping he would stay awake longer.”
What if it wasn’t a dream? He brushed the absurd thought aside. Things like that didn’t happen in real life.
But what if it did? The thought persisted. Scott’s blood sugar dropped for some reason.
“If you need me, just ring,” the nurse said and turned toward the door.
“The doctor said Scott’s blood sugar dropped. Is it possible he got too much insulin?”
“I don’t think he gets insulin. Let me check.” She returned to the bed and punched the intercom button. “See if insulin is on Scott Sinclair’s chart.”
The reply came quickly. “Not listed.”
Nick thanked her. His gaze fell on the IV bag in the trash can beside Scott’s bed. What Scott saw, whether a dream or real, caused him to pull his IV out last night. He could get the tubing tested. And if it came back positive for insulin . . . His mind didn’t want to go there.
He could get Livy to test it. Taylor trusted her. Wait a minute. He couldn’t accuse Ethan Trask of attempted murder, not on what might be no more than a dream.
But what if Scott was right, and Ethan planned to kill Taylor. He couldn’t let that happen.
Nick lifted the trash liner from the can and wadded it into a tight bundle and tucked it under his shirt.
In the waiting room, Nick turned his cell phone on again. A call from Taylor. He dialed her number. After five rings the call went to voice mail. Frustrated, he left a message asking her to call him. Then he called Livy on her cell phone.
“I need a favor,” he said when she answered.
35
At the Criminal Justice Center, Nick took the IV bag and tubing from the trash bag and handed it to Livy. “My brother thinks Ethan Trask tried to kill him last night by putting insulin in his IV. And that Taylor is next.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Livy stared from the tubing to Nick’s face. “You’re not.”
“His blood sugar dropped to practically nothing, and he pulled his IV out for some reason.” He paced the area in front of her desk. “I don’t think Scott was hallucinating, either. Testing the tubing is the only way to know for sure. How fast can you get a test run?”
“I can call in a favor, get it done within the hour.”
“I tried to call and warn Taylor, but she doesn’t answer.” He scrubbed the side of his face. “I hope that’s soon enough.”
After Livy headed to the lab, Nick tried Taylor’s cell phone again. Why didn’t she answer? Maybe she’d forgotten to charge her phone again.
“They’ll call as soon as they have the results,” Livy said when she returned.
“Taylor still isn’t answering her cell.”
“She may be in the shower. You need to calm down. Scott could’ve dreamed the whole thing. Think about it . . . Ethan is a respected attorney.”
What Livy said was nothing he hadn’t already told himself. He took a slow breath and blew it out. He felt Livy’s gaze on him.
“I know I’m butting in, but Taylor is my friend, and she was really upset last night about something to do with you. What happened?”
He flinched under her intense scrutiny.
“You told her you didn’t want to see her again, didn’t you?” Disappointment rang in her voice.
He crossed his arms. “I asked her . . . to choose between me and her police work.”
“Why? She lives to solve crimes, and to teach others how to do it.”
“The teaching is fine. That’s not dangerous. But dealing with criminals . . . she’ll get herself killed.” His fingers curled into fists. “You don’t know what it’s like to see someone you love on a cold, wet sidewalk, their lifeblood pouring out of them. I just want to protect her, keep her safe.”
“Of all people, you should realize you can’t protect her. As hard as you tried, you couldn’t protect your wife.” Livy’s phone rang. “Think about that,” she said and excused herself.
Nick rubbed his hand across his mouth. He closed his eyes, thinking how this stubborn, beautiful woman had come into his life and turned it upside down in three short weeks.
Livy returned. “That was Ben Logan. He heard back about the fingerprints on the envelope Taylor received last week. Nada. He’s sending them to the Violent Crimes Apprehension Program.”
“Good. We need a break, or Taylor might not walk away the next time.”
As Taylor descended the stairs, the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and biscuits baking in the oven drew her to the kitchen.
“Good morning,” her mother called brightly. “Are you feeling better?”
She wished. But she knew better than to tell her mom how she really felt. “I think I am.”
“Good. Biscuits are coming out in five minutes.”
Taylor poured a cup of coffee. Her mother was dressed to go out. “Got a busy day today?” she asked.
“The spa? Ethan’s surprise? Remember?”
“Oh . . . yeah.” What if her suspicions were true? “Any chance you can change the date? Make it tomorrow, and I’ll go with you.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late.” Her mom’s eyes twinkled like she had a secret. “When I told Ethan you couldn’t come, he decided to take your place.”
Taylor’s mind raced. Her hunches were rarely wrong, but her mom probably wouldn’t believe her. More proof, that’s what she needed.
“I still wish you’d wait.” Taylor stirred creamer in her coffee. “Have you seen Jonathan?”
“I saw his truck go toward the home place. Why?”
“Oh, just thought I would talk to him a minute before I went to Memphis to see Livy.” Taylor didn’t know what she would say to her uncle—maybe ask if Allen Yates had blackmailed him twenty years ago. Get him to confess that he and Ethan had killed the cop. She certainly wanted to ask him about that letter from her dad.
“I tell you what.” Mom took out the biscuits. “When Ethan gets here, I’ll ask him if we can make the spa appointment tomorrow. I’d really like you to come.”
“Great.” A day’s reprieve would make Taylor feel better.
After getting dressed, Taylor checked her cell phone. Nick called. She quickly redialed, but an incoming call flashed, displaying the Bradford County Sheriff Department, and she switched to it. “Hey, Ben.” Holding the phone between her ear and shoulder, she picked up the envelope she’d laid on the bed.
“I heard from Jackson. They lifted two sets of prints from that envelope that didn’t belong to you or Jonathan or Pete. Nothing on the photos. They’re sending all of them on to ViCAP.”
“Good. Where are you?” She might run a few of her ideas by him before she went downtown.
“I’m on the other end of the county checking on a reported meth lab. Did you need me?”
“Sort of, but I’m leaving in a few minutes for Memphis.” She sl
id the newspaper articles out as an incoming call buzzed in her ear. Nick again. “Can I call you right back?”
“No need. I just wanted to tell you about the report.”
“Thanks.” She switched to Nick’s call, but he’d hung up. She redialed and it went to voice mail. She left him a message, then slid her phone into her pocket and flipped through the articles. The first was the account of her father’s disappearance. Nothing new there. Next was a follow-up article. The following three were clipped together, and Nick had attached a note indicating they were written before his disappearance.
She read the accolades about her father. James Martin was depicted as a man who gave much of his time to helping others. After reading them, Taylor sat absolutely still. The man in the article would never abandon his responsibilities. What happened to change all that? She picked up the last article and gasped.
The clown in her dreams stared at her from the paper. Under the picture the caption read “Ethan Trask and Jonathan Martin perform for sick children.” Her gaze froze on Ethan’s face.
A wisp of memory curled through her mind. Two clowns. Jonathan and Ethan. Her father, yelling. Ethan raising his arm . . .
Her dad wasn’t dancing with another woman.
Her mind released what it had shielded her from for so long.
He had been struggling with Ethan.
Ethan killed her dad.
Taylor jerked the door open and raced down the stairs while she dialed Livy’s number. She burst into the kitchen. “Mom! Ethan—”
“Hello, Taylor.” Ethan faced her, a .38 Special in his hand.
36
Taylor! Are you there?” The faint sound of Livy’s voice sounded in the kitchen.
Ethan grabbed Taylor’s phone and ended the call.
“What are you doing?” Taylor snatched for her phone, but the look on Ethan’s face stopped her. “Give me my phone.” She glanced around the room. “Where’s my mom?”
“Waiting for you.” He waved the .38 at her. “Revolvers don’t jam.”
“You? It was you?” Her mind tried to grasp that it had been Ethan who’d tried to kill her.
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