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 some one 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 delicious food. I can’t wait t
o 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: 978-1-4592-1382-1
WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE
Copyright © 2011 by J.T. Ellison
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