She shook her head. The pain left her breathless sometimes.
“That’s not entirely unexpected. They’ll fade in time. Rest, and no stress, that will help. But your voice…”
He broke off, and she braced herself. She was experienced in giving bad news. She got the sense she was about to get a huge dose of it.
“I think you may be experiencing a bit of what we call a conversion disorder.”
She shrugged. He bit his lip a couple of times, then continued.
“You’ve just suffered a major trauma, both physically and emotionally. You’re healing well, so I’m inclined to think that this continued dysphonia is non-organic, more of a…psychological disequilibrium, if you will. And as such, it’s much more treatable through some form of psychotherapy, combined with antianxiety medication. Which also wouldn’t hurt to help get you through the stress of…all this.”
Dr. Benedict actually waved his hand around in a circle.
Can you banish it for me, Doctor? Can you wave your magic wand and make me better?
All this. Being shot in the head by a suspect. Spending a week in an induced coma while the swelling on her brain subsided, then, when the medication wore off, scaring everyone to death by not waking up for another week. Opening her eyes to find Baldwin hovering anxiously over her. Not being able to talk…to tell him she loved him, and that she hated him. The Pretender, setting up residence in her brain, invading her dreams, haunting her days. Psychological disequilibrium. What a perfect term for what she was feeling. Pissed off and scared, too. This couldn’t all be in her head. Could it?
She grabbed the pad of paper from her pocket, flipped it open and scribbled furiously. She held it up for the doctor to see.
He raised his hands in defense.
“Now, Taylor, I’m not saying you’re crazy. Far from it. A conversion disorder fits with your symptoms. And it’s fixable.”
Baldwin shifted in his chair, faced her, his voice deep and grave. “Taylor, he’s right. A conversion disorder does fit. We’ve talked about you having PTSD. You should hear yourself sleep. You moan and scream and yell. You thrash around all night. It’s obvious you’re reliving the shooting.”
She shook her head vehemently, wrote That’s not true and showed it to Benedict. She didn’t need him to see how weak she’d become. She put her hand on Baldwin’s arm and scowled at him. He seemed grimly determined to sabotage her today.
Of course she was reliving it. Every second of every day. It was on loop in her head.
Benedict frowned at her. “Taylor, you need to let me know these things. I prescribed Ativan when you were here last—you’re not taking it regularly, are you?”
She shook her head. The Ativan made her logy.
“I keep telling her she needs to take the meds.”
She hated when Baldwin sided with the doctor against her. If he could just be on her side, and stop being so fucking solicitous and knowledgeable.
Maybe I am just sitting on a head full of crazy. I can’t talk. I can’t work. I’m communicating with a notepad. Yeah, I’m going to be just fine. Sure.
She missed her life. She missed her team. Her homicide detectives at Metro Nashville: Lincoln Ross, Marcus Wade, Renn McKenzie. Her former sergeant, Pete Fitzgerald. Sam, Forensic Medical, the acrid scent of formalin. Commander Huston. Everyone. Even missed Baldwin, though her fury at his lies hadn’t faded, and the hurt was all that was left behind. But she didn’t know how to face them. Any of them.
Her breath started to come quicker.
“Taylor?” Baldwin said, jerking her from her thoughts.
She needed to get out. Away. Now. She shot daggers at them both, then stood and marched from the room.
She made it out of the doctor’s office and into the vestibule by the elevators. She wasn’t going to get far. Baldwin had the car keys.
She tried to say the words aloud that were burning her mouth, her throat. But the images started—the hardwood floor, covered in dust that tickled her nose, the beating of her heart, so loud, so close, the blackness she knew was blood covering her eyes. Her blood. Baldwin screaming, Sam bleeding, the Pretender crumpled in a heap just inches from her, his eyes open, staring into hers as she struggled, and failed, to maintain consciousness.
She was dying again.
She started to hyperventilate. A fucking panic attack, in public, for everyone to see. She glanced about wildly—where could she go?
Strong arms encircled her. She smelled cedar, Baldwin’s natural scent.
“Breathe, baby. Just breathe. Deep in through your nose. You’re all right.”
She was getting tired of people telling her she was all right. Obviously she wasn’t. She was far from all right. She was broken.
She sagged against Baldwin, let him take her weight. How many times had they done this in the past few weeks? Four? Ten? Fifty?
She felt herself center, the panic subsiding. The Ativan was supposed to help avoid and alleviate this very problem. Maybe she should try it again. She just hated to admit defeat. She kept hoping she would find a way to handle this.
“Honey, come on back inside. I think Dr. Benedict wants to finish.”
She fought to get the words out—fuck Dr. Benedict—but they wouldn’t come. Instead, she clamped her lips tight together and followed Baldwin back into the office. They took their seats.
Benedict acted like nothing had happened. He just cocked his head and asked, “So?”
I’ll do it.
Benedict clapped his hands together. “Good. I’ll send word over to Dr. Willig that you’ll be making an appointment to see her ASAP. She’s well versed in conversion disorder; I can’t think of a better doctor to work with on this. I’ll see you back here in a couple of weeks. If you have any pain, or problems swallowing, or bleeding, you get in here immediately, all right?”
They stood, and he walked them to the door. He let his hand linger a moment on her back in reassurance.
“Hang in, okay? This will improve. Time heals all wounds, remember that.”
God, if only that were true.
“I know this is hard. I know it sucks. Whether you’re ready to admit it or not, you’ve been through an unbelievable trauma, no matter how ‘lucky’ you got with that shot. The stress of your situation alone is enough to cause the conversion disorder. Listen, I’ll throw in some incentive. You see Victoria—regularly, mind you—and I’ll talk to Commander Huston about you going back on the job. I see no reason you can’t at least handle a non-field post in a few weeks.”
How much convincing had Baldwin had to do to talk the doc into that? At least driving a desk would be something. Better than sitting at home waiting. Waiting for her voice to come back, or the anger to fade. For Sam to forgive her. For Baldwin to agree to talk about the search for his son.
“Deal?”
She nodded, and put out her hand to shake.
At this point, she’d do almost anything to get back to normal, even if it meant getting her head shrunk. Working murder was her life, her purpose. Take that away and she felt like a shell of herself. Take away her voice too, and she was slowly locking herself down, inside, where only her demons resided. This was a fitting punishment for her sins, to be sure. A little bit of hell on earth. She just wondered how long it was going to last.
CHAPTER THREE
When they’d arrived at Baptist, Taylor had watched an older couple get out of a car in the handicap space, two tiny, shriveled beings, male and female, showing up for an appointment. It had made her sad, the parallels between them—old and young, both hurt and looking to be fixed. Taylor knew her odds were better, but she couldn’t help but feel that this was what she had to look forward to. The romantics of growing old with someone were shattered by the realities of the flesh incrementally dying.
But leaving the hospital, she wasn’t feeling as pessimistic. As annoyed as she was, with both Baldwin and the doctor, she couldn’t help but feel buoyed by her appointment. Having a plan of attack was
eminently preferable to this constant sitting and waiting.
“Hungry?” Baldwin asked.
She nodded. She was starving. She wrote Prince’s.
“Hot chicken? At 9:00 in the morning?”
Her mouth started to water at the mere thought. When she was coming up on the force, they ate at Prince’s almost every night shift, right around 3:00 a.m. Ridiculously hot fried chicken, full of spices and peppers, a true Nashville delicacy. It brought tears to your eyes. She’d seen more than one tough cop use the spices in the chicken to cover real tears after a particularly nasty night.
Baldwin laughed briefly. “Prince’s it is.” He turned right onto Charlotte. She stared up the hill, wishing she could go straight to the CJC right now, announce herself and jump on the closest case. Commander Huston wouldn’t like it. She’d given strict instructions about Taylor’s time off. Everyone was coddling her, when in truth a little action might shake things loose. She was mentally stable, the wounds were healed, the headaches were manageable, most of the time. She just couldn’t talk. Really, that wasn’t much of a handicap, was it?
Unless no one believed that was all that was wrong with her.
Baldwin was playing with the steering wheel.
“So you’re cool with seeing Willig?”
Taylor nodded, shrugged.
He took his right hand off the wheel, laid it gently on her wrist. “Honey, remember, I’ve been there. I know what it feels like to revisit a nightmare. To feel like I somehow failed, even when it wasn’t my fault.”
She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. Solicitousness was bad. She could handle most anything—anger, fear, pain, concern. But pity set her off. She was too strong to be pitied, damn it.
Baldwin just wouldn’t let up. Every word from his mouth was like stepping on hot coals. Her teeth clenched.
“We can talk about it anytime you want. I want to help, Taylor. Let me help you.”
She responded with a deafening sigh.
Leave. Me. Alone.
They drove on in strained silence until they reached the trailer that housed the restaurant. She was hoping that the spices would loosen things up in her throat, like really hot tea. It hadn’t worked yet, but she was willing to try most anything.
Her cell rang as they pulled into the lot. It was Dr. Benedict’s office. She opened the phone and handed it to Baldwin. He uh-huh’d for a second, then looked over at Taylor. “Today at one o’clock with Willig sound good?”
She nodded. The sooner the better.
He hung up and handed the phone back to her. They got out of the car, let the chilled air surround them. There was a stream of warmth coming out of the side door to the trailer. It enveloped her so thoroughly she almost forgot it was winter.
They ordered their chicken—extra hot for her, medium for him—then sat at the picnic table with a bundle of napkins, waiting for their food to be ready.
“Wanna talk?” Baldwin asked softly. She turned to him, his clear green eyes full of empathy, and shut down. He was doing it again, that look of sadness, of compassion. Couldn’t he just yell and scream like a normal man, get pissed at her for giving him the cold shoulder? He was too understanding. Goddamn it.
How about you go first. A little more detail about your son would be nice. How are things in adoption land?
He flinched as if she’d struck him. Perfect. She’d wounded him right back.
Baldwin stared at her for a second, anger boiling beneath the surface, his lips in a thin, forbidding line. Then he took a deep breath and shook his head, refusing the engagement.
He was so damn patient with her, and she was getting really frustrated with him. They needed to have a knock-down, drag-out fight, clear the air, find a way back to themselves. She’d been poking at him, and he’d been unwilling to react, nor to discuss his side of the issue. It just served to make her more upset. She wanted a fight, even if she couldn’t actually yell at him.
She turned her back and watched the steam rise out of a manhole cover, venting thermals from beneath the earth. This was not working. Despite her physical problems and her wild mood swings, hurting Baldwin had become a source of satisfaction for her, and that didn’t bode well for their life together. She twisted her engagement ring around her finger, the Asscher-cut diamonds catching the sun and sparkling onto the dirty gray pavement, a symbol of hope. If she’d just let it be. Get the hell out of her own way and allow things to get back to normal.
Taylor had never been in this situation before. Probably because anytime a relationship started to head south, she’d just ended it cleanly and walked away. No sense in struggling to make it work. But this, this was different. Baldwin was different. She needed to decide what she wanted from him. He needed to do the same. They couldn’t keep dancing around like this, cutting each other from different angles. One of the cuts was going to bleed too much, and then it would be over. And she didn’t think that was what she wanted.
Baldwin handed her a Coke, and she took the opportunity to down a Percocet. Her head was starting to pulse, and she had the whole day in front of her. It would be the first pill of many, she could tell that already.
They ate in silence, then got back in the car and headed home. There was nothing for her to do downtown anyway; her appointment wasn’t until 1:00. He pulled into the drive way, into the garage, entered the house, all without saying a word. Inside, he excused himself to go to his office to get some work done. Taylor was left adrift, feeling annoyed with herself for digging at him, sorry that he wasn’t near her, glad he wasn’t, and confused about what all that meant.
At this rate, she was going to drive herself mad.
She needed to kill some time. She could read, but that would make the headache worse. Exercise, but she’d already done that this morning, before the doctor. She decided to check her email, and was immediately glad that she did.
There was a note from Memphis. Generally a highly diverting event.
James “Memphis” Highsmythe, so dubbed by his classmates at Eton after a trip to Graceland in Tennessee when he was a child, was a friend, a detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police in London. He was also the Viscount Dulsie, and a confirmed rake. He’d worked a case with Baldwin and ended up in Nashville, made a play for Taylor’s affections in Italy, and was a source of annoyance, amusement, and lately, comfort to Taylor. Undeniably a friend who wanted to be more. Much, much more.
The email’s subject line was blank, as usual. Memphis wasn’t one for pith when it wasn’t needed. She clicked it open.
Francesco Stradivari just had a birthday. Can you imagine what it must have been like to have a father whose work was respected the world over? Did you know he forged his father’s signature on a few of the pieces in late 1730’s? Today is also my father’s birthday, and I’ve promised him a night out. I’m catching the train to Edinburgh at four. What sort of brilliance lies ahead for you?
Taylor calculated the time difference. Memphis was six hours ahead of her. He would probably be on the train now. He often wrote to her while traveling. It helped him pass the time.
She hit Reply.
I went to the doctor this morning. Everything is a-okay, just still don’t have any voice to speak of. Pun intended. He offered me a deal: if I see Victoria Willig, the department’s psychologist, then he’ll approve me going back to work on limited duty in a few weeks. I have an appointment with her this afternoon. Where are you taking your father to dinner?
His message came back quickly. She was right, he was on the train.
Open your chat.
She did, and Memphis was there, a default smiley face waiting on her.
Dinner is at The Witchery, of course. The finest meal in Edinburgh. It’s divine. I’d love to take you sometime. We’ll have Beef Wellington and burnt custard for pudding.
That does sound good. But what, no haggis?
Would YOU eat sheep’s stomach stuffed with oats? It’s actually not bad. I simply prefer a more refined meal.<
br />
Ugh. No thanks. What else will you do tonight?
That’s it. Father is taking the car back to the estate, and I’m heading back to London on the late train. This case is getting ready to blow up, I can just feel it. I’ll be pulled in by the morning.
Memphis had mentioned the case to her before. Two girls missing, now three, from their London homes. He’d been watching it from afar, wondering what sort of escalation was coming. Taylor knew that feeling. An investigator is only as good as their instincts, and she respected the idea of a hunch.
At least you’ll be calling the shots. Your mother won’t be joining you for dinner?
The Countess? No, she’s in South Africa with my brother. His vineyard is having a wee bit of difficulty, and she offered to go and help.
The Countess is a vintner too?
Her talents know no bounds. Like someone else I’m acquainted with.
Taylor let that slide. She wasn’t feeling terribly talented these days. Not having her own case to work, her own show to run, she just wasn’t herself.
Memphis wrote again.
I’ve been thinking: If you have to see a therapist to get clearance to return to work, why don’t you make plans to visit? One of my dearest friends is a celebrated psychologist. You can stay at the estate, she can drop in for your visits, and you can get a break. Do some outdoors stuff. I know it’s a bit chilly now, but with the proper gear it would be lovely. The house is all done up for Christmas, it’s quite beautiful. My father will be joining my mother in South Africa for the holidays, so there’s no one around. You can have the run of the place. Get away from those pesky reporters who’ve been nagging you. What do you think?
Where All the Dead Lie Page 2
