Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2

by J. T. Ellison

  *

  The file was a mess, full of articles cut from newspapers, handwritten notes, pictures. She took a deep breath. How best to do this? It was much too late to pretend she hadn’t had her hands on it. And in light of everything, she hardly felt guilty for snooping.

  She got down on the floor and spread everything out before her. Took all the newspaper articles and put them in a pile. She put the handwritten notes in their own stack. She’d come back to them. She didn’t want to be any more biased than she already was before reading the newspaper clippings.

  She sorted the clippings by date, then started to read.

  Baldwin was right. News of Evan’s untimely death had been splashed across multiple U.K. newspapers, the stories sad and sober. But there was one little article, from an obscure U.K. gossip rag, that tore Evan and Memphis’s relationship to pieces. Memphis was treated with disdain, frank curiosity and downright nastiness. The woman he supposedly had the affair with was never named, but “sources” claimed she was a coworker.

  She couldn’t believe Baldwin had fallen for all of this. Lies. It was clear as day. Anyone who heard Memphis talk about his wife could see he’d been madly in love with her. Couldn’t they?

  Paparazzi photos of Memphis with a cute brunette triggered a memory—was that Penelope Micklebury, his DC? She grabbed her laptop and went to the Metropolitan Police website. A quick search through his division scored her a photograph. Yes, the mystery woman in the gossip magazines was his detective constable, then just an up-and-coming officer. Taylor knew that they certainly hadn’t had an affair. Pen was a lesbian.

  Taylor was well acquainted with how gossip and innuendo worked. She’d been the victim of it herself not six months prior. She’d even been suspended, and had to fight to get her command back over the mess. She was more than happy to side with Memphis on this one. The papers were in business to sell papers, and sensationalism did the trick. She knew for a fact that smoke didn’t always equate to fire.

  She wondered if Evan had heard the rumors and gotten upset, then rushed off. If that was the case, no wonder Memphis blamed himself.

  She sat back on her heels on the floor. She was being quick to defend Memphis. Did she really know him? She thought she did; he’d shown her his heart, after all. But he’d always kept secrets from her. Never fully let her in. And knowing she was engaged to marry Baldwin, he was still more than happy to compromise her and her relationship to get what he wanted.

  No, Memphis wasn’t a saint. Far from it. But she wasn’t entirely convinced he was such a sinner either.

  Until she moved to the pile of handwritten notes. They told a different, more lurid story.

  She realized she’d never seen his writing before. It was an elegant scrawl, masculine; he’d used a fountain pen on most of the sheets.

  Some of the notes were letters to Evan. Those were the hardest to read. They were all dated, some before, and some after Evan’s death. They told a clear story of pain and desire, with Memphis trying to tell his wife that, no, he wasn’t doing any of the things she was being told, that he loved her, loved their baby. He even offered to quit working for the Met and come home for good. She was reading a purely one-sided conversation, but Taylor got the idea. Evan had someone she trusted implicitly giving her the information about his exploits. Evan believed that single tabloid story over her own husband.

  What a blow that must have been.

  The letters from after her death were the worst. She skimmed these only, seeing his pain, watching him bleed on the page. Reading them thoroughly didn’t feel right. It was voyeuristic at best. She set them aside. She just couldn’t go there.

  Why had he left this file out in the open for anyone to stumble upon? Had he wanted her to find them? She wondered where Evan’s letters back to Memphis were.

  Okay, he hadn’t exactly left it out in the open. She’d used the key he gave her and broken into his office. But Memphis was a cop, used to compartmentalizing, aware of consequences if private material got out in the open. It just didn’t make sense. Unless he trusted that she wouldn’t invade his privacy by going in his office, sitting at his desk, picking up the newspaper and finding the file underneath. Why would he expect that she would do any of that? He wouldn’t.

  But he had very purposefully given her the key.

  She started to put the file away, saw one last piece of paper sticking out from the bottom of the stack. She pulled it out just to straighten it before she put it back with the others, couldn’t help but see the opening words:

  I’m so, so sorry.

  What was this now?

  The paper was different than the letters, thick and white, with a ragged edge, like it had been ripped from a sewn or bound notebook. A journal, maybe? The ink was brighter, fresher, more recent. She read the words, felt her heart begin to flutter.

  The letter was dated December 21.

  It was Evan’s suicide note.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  21 December, 2008

  Dear James,

  I am so, so sorry to do this to you. But I can’t face another moment with these creatures in my head. They claw at me. They tear me to shreds. Their eyes follow me everywhere. I can’t escape. They make me want to die. So that is where I am going. To death. He will welcome me.

  I will make sure he takes care of the baby. I do love you.

  Evanelle

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Taylor felt like she was going to throw up again. Baldwin was right. Evan had committed suicide. Why hadn’t Memphis told her? Why hadn’t he trusted her? And why had he taken her to the spot where his wife took her own life if not to share in some sick, demented fantasy about the two of them?

  And why did she completely understand how Evan felt? Last night, she would have welcomed death with open arms. It seemed like the best solution to her problems.

  Taylor put the rest together. She was right in her earlier assumption. Trixie. Trixie was the common denominator.

  She grabbed her computer. Maybe there was something in the woman’s past that would explain why she wanted to drive the women around Memphis crazy. Though finding details about a Scottish housekeeper on the internet was probably pointless. Family documents, other servants: that’s where she’d get the whole story. But why would they trust Taylor?

  She opened her computer, the home page glowing in mundane comfort. There were several new emails in her inbox. One caught her eye.

  It was from Memphis. Dated yesterday. So he had been in touch.

  She clicked on the message.

  Taylor, you are my heart’s desire. I will do anything to keep you. If you knew what I’ve been doing, you’d never forgive me. But I must have you. I must keep you. Taylor, I am so, so sorry for what I have to do. For what I have done. You will never know that I was responsible for her death. That I drove her over that precipice. And you won’t know what I’ve done to him, either.

  You will be so sad, my love, but I will heal you. I will fix you. You will be happy again. I promise.

  I love you.

  Jesus, what was this?

  A confession? For killing Evan. For killing his son? Or for what he planned to do?

  Maybe it wasn’t Trixie who was making her ill after all. Maybe it was Memphis.

  Keeping her off balance, keeping her sick…

  He could have easily put medicine in her pill bottles that made her hallucinate. He’d been in her room—hell, he’d slept there, the very first night she’d been at the castle. She’d drunk plenty in his presence: wine, tea, juice. He could have easily spiked any of it.

  God, the port. Every time she drank his port, she had a horrifying hallucination. And him, planting the idea of the ghost they called the Lady in Red in her head. Telling her that ghastly story. And she, falling for it all like a teenage girl at a campfire who didn’t know any better.

  She read the email again, heart racing.

  Him. Did Memphis mean his son, or someone closer? Someone still alive?r />
  Could he mean harm to Baldwin?

  She needed to talk to Baldwin. She needed to warn him.

  She put the file back together, set it on the desk and grabbed her phone. His voice mail answered. Before she could leave a message, there was a knock at her door.

  “Miss Taylor? Are you feeling all right this morn? I’ve brought ye some tea.”

  Fuck. Trixie. They had to be working together. Trixie was the lynchpin, plying Taylor with tea all the time. She’d been the one to soothe Taylor after the very first nightmare. She should have trusted her instincts when she suspected her before.

  Things came crashing together. The coat with the glass in it. Trixie had been the one to set the boots and coat in Taylor’s room. And she was always hanging around, always lurking. Doing her master’s bidding.

  Memphis, you sodding bastard.

  “Miss Jackson?” Trixie called again.

  Act like nothing’s wrong. Answer the door.

  Taylor shoved the file back in the desk and strode to the door. She swung it open, saw Trixie’s anxious face and wondered if perhaps she was wrong. She looked…frightened. And then relieved.

  “Oh, so you are all right then. Good. I was worried. I’ve got fresh ginger tea and some ginger biscuits. That should settle your system. The storm is very bad. Do you have enough wood by your fire? I’m afraid it will be days before we can get out.”

  Taylor let her wheel the tea tray in. She’d be damned if she ate or drank anything that she didn’t prepare herself for the rest of the time at the castle. But for now, she didn’t need to let them know that she was onto them.

  She pointed at her throat so Trixie would assume she couldn’t speak. Being known as functionally mute was going to have its advantages after all.

  “Och, lassie, I’m not surprised. Made a mess downstairs, yes you did.”

  Taylor pointed to the side of the bed, mimed throwing up.

  “There, too? I’ll send along one of the cleaning lassies. Can I be getting you anything else now? Would you like Cook to make you a breakfast?”

  Was that a hopeful note in the hateful old besom’s voice?

  Taylor shook her head, held her hand over her stomach. Pointed at the tea cart. Forced herself to smile. She was stuck in a fucking blizzard with a woman who may or may not be a part of a plot to derail her mind. Super.

  “Perhaps ye’ll be feeling well enough to join Maddee and Roland for luncheon, then.”

  This was said without guile, just a making-conversation-with-the-inmates tone. But it was critical information. Maddee was still here. There were witnesses. She would be safe.

  Taylor shrugged and signaled to the door. She needed to be alone. Needed to figure out her next steps.

  Trixie, long adapted to clues from her employers, nodded once and excused herself. Taylor locked the door behind her.

  The first thing she did was add some of the tea to the bottle she was keeping, then she tossed the rest of the cookies into the toilet and flushed them.

  Itching for an evidence bag, she set the pot of tea back on the cart and fetched a fresh bottle of Highland Springs water from the bar. The cap was secure, the seal hadn’t been broken. She felt reasonably sure she could drink it without repercussions.

  She drank straight from the bottle in case there was something in the glasses. Thirst slaked, she rummaged in her carry-on for the bag of trail mix she’d stashed there in case the plane’s food was awful. It was still factory sealed. She could live on water and trail mix for a day or two, no problem. It would tide her over until Baldwin could get her the hell out of here and back to Nashville.

  With her feast now laid before her, she tried Baldwin’s phone. Voice mail again. God, of all the times to miss her call. He’d been frothing at the mouth to find out what was going on, now he didn’t answer her?

  She looked at the email from Memphis again.

  He was a sick, sick man.

  Her phone rang. She grabbed it, hoping for Baldwin. It was Sam.

  “You won’t believe the email I just got from Memphis.”

  “Taylor, wait. I need to tell you something. You said Maddee James gave you melatonin, right?”

  “Right. She said I really needed to sleep, and thought I’d do better on something all-natural.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “Long clear capsule with tan grains. Horse pills.”

  “That could be anything, Taylor. You can’t take anything else she gives you.”

  “God, you think Maddee’s in on this, too? Why would she want to hurt me? That makes no sense. She’s supposed to be helping me.”

  “Some help. What’s the last thing you remember from yesterday?”

  “I don’t remember sending you that note, that’s for sure. The last really solid thing I remember was having a beer with Maddee. And I got horrifically ill shortly afterward. She did pour my beer for me, I think… You don’t think all three of them are trying to kill me?”

  “I don’t know, Taylor. But at least one of them is. You have to get out of there.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Taylor pulled back the curtain. The world was white, the wind whirling the snow around.

  “Because I’m in the middle of a whiteout blizzard.”

  “Where is the illustrious Dr. James?”

  “Somewhere in the house. Trixie just came to bring me more tea, and dropped that Maddee and Roland wanted me to join them for a late lunch.”

  Taylor could hear tapping. Sam was on her computer.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Just checking on Dr. James’s license. Which, from what I can see here, doesn’t exist. Where did you say she’s from?”

  No license? “Long Island.”

  A few more taps. “Sorry, sugar. Bad news. There is no one named Madeira James with a license to practice psychology, psychotherapy, nothing.”

  “But do you need one to practice in the U.K.?”

  Tapping again. “Absolutely. She’s not a part of the British Psychological Society, the governing body there. She’s not listed anywhere that I can find. It doesn’t mean she wasn’t trained, but she can’t hang out a legitimate shingle.”

  “That’s just great news. Wouldn’t Willig have picked up on this?”

  “Why would she? You told her the woman was qualified in EMDR. She sent the files.”

  “Memphis told me she was.”

  “Another strike. Do you still have internet access, with the storm?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Check her out.”

  “Sam…”

  “Seriously. None of this smells right, Taylor. You’re still not thinking completely clearly, or else you’d have already put this together.”

  “I’m finding it hard to believe that the whole lot of them are in on a conspiracy together.”

  “I don’t know, Taylor. But we don’t know these people.”

  “I know Memphis.”

  “No. You don’t. You can’t know him. It takes more than a few emails and chat sessions to get to the heart of a person. And I know you well enough to know that you haven’t let him in yet. Not all the way. So Taylor?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you did sleep with Memphis, which I’m starting to doubt you did, it’s okay. The world won’t end. You and Baldwin aren’t married. Just…don’t do it again, okay?”

  That was as close to forgiveness as she was likely to get, from anyone.

  “Yes, Mom. Talk to you later. And Sam? Thanks.”

  “Love you, honey.”

  “Love you, too.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Madeira James didn’t exist. She was a ghost.

  Taylor looked everywhere she could think. Criminal records first, but no one with that name had run afoul of the law. She moved on to all the regular databases she had access to—credit card companies, tax rolls, real estate. Nothing.

  Maddee was from Long Island. She hadn’t come to Scot
land until she was twenty-one or so; Memphis had told her that. There had to be something, some record. But there was nothing.

  Taylor had friends in New York who could look deeper into the files there, but that would take too long. She felt like time was running out.

  But she knew someone who could break through all the barriers, seen and unseen. If there was information to be found, he could access it.

  She grabbed her phone and dialed up Lincoln Ross.

  He answered in a quiet mumble. She’d woken him, but he would understand.

  “It’s Taylor.”

  “I know. What’s up?”

  “I need your help.” She outlined the story for him. Again with the barest of essentials, skipping many of the finer points. If she were wrong, she didn’t want her team around her to think she’d gone off the deep end.

  Lincoln, ever the adventurist when it came to tracking people through the internet, was game for some action. She heard him start typing away.

  “Good. I owe you one, Linc.”

  “Always good to need a favor. I’ll get back to you. This number is secure?”

  “It’s the best I’ve got. Keep it quiet and cover your tracks. If she’s hiding something, and there are alarms set up, I don’t want her to know we’re into her world.”

  “Will do. Talk to you shortly.”

  Home.

  A wave of longing for the normalcy of Nashville crashed over her. She’d even face her father if she got through this one unscathed. He was nothing, comparatively.

  Taylor sat at the desk for a few minutes to plan her next steps. Phase one was in play. Now to deal with the bigger issue.

  She was here in the house with Maddee and Trixie. Maddee’s husband was present. She couldn’t imagine that she was in any kind of real danger from the women, not with so many witnesses around. That would be insanity.

  What if this whole escapade, if you will, was designed for her to see the good in Memphis? That the plan was for her to be mortified, scared and sick and alone, and him to come charging in on the white horse to save her? Yet it had backfired something terrible.