Where All the Dead Lie

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Taylor hung up with Sam and sighed deeply. She didn’t know how to get a blood sample, outside of cutting herself and putting the blood in a glass from the bathroom. Maybe one of the discarded water bottles?

They wouldn’t need much, would they?

She didn’t have a knife. She cast about the room, looking for something that might work. Glass.

She took one of the crystal lowballs to the bathroom and threw it into the tub, and immediately was reminded of Bald win shattering his wineglass in their kitchen. God, he’d been right. He’d been right the whole time. She should have listened to him.

She picked up a thick shard of glass that looked sharp enough to do the job and cut her forearm before she could change her mind. Blood welled to the surface. She caught it in an empty Highland Springs bottle. She had no idea if that would be enough, or the right kind of blood to test, but it was better than doing nothing.

She bandaged herself up and put the bottle in the bottom of her suitcase.

Her phone was ringing but she ignored it.

She took the dregs of her last pot of tea and filled another bottle with it. There. She felt more in control now.

Time to bite the bullet. She needed to lay all the ghosts to rest.

Her next call was to Baldwin. He was even more upset with her than Sam had been.

“Where have you been? Sam forwarded me that email you wrote her. What in the world is going on?”

“It’s kind of a long, messed-up story.”

She gave him the gist of what was going on, leaving out any erotic details about the nocturnal escapades.

“So you think you’ve been drugged?” he asked, incredulous. “Are you sure you haven’t just overdone the pain meds? They’re strong pills.”

“Yes, I’m sure. I can’t believe you’d say that.”

“Don’t get defensive. I’m asking as a doctor, not your fiance.”

She took a deep breath. She needed him on her side right now. “It has to be external, Baldwin. Either that or I’m in big trouble mentally.”

“Did you mention this to Memphis?”

“No, I haven’t talked to him.” Her voice sounded queer.

She kicked herself. She sounded guilty. Baldwin was kind enough not to mention it.

Baldwin made an excellent point. Where was Memphis? He hadn’t gotten in touch since he left. At first she’d been glad, but then… Could he be in on this? She hadn’t wanted to think that Memphis would have anything to do with a plot against her. But if he’d helped Trixie drug her, then come to her room and had sex with her, knowing her to be compromised… No. No.

She couldn’t think that about him. She couldn’t think that he’d basically date-raped her. And from what she recalled, she’d been willing enough, at the time.

And she couldn’t share that part with Baldwin, either. She steeled her voice.

“I can’t imagine he’d be so callous. Memphis may be many things, but he’s a cop, a man of integrity. He’s like us.”

“He’s just a man, Taylor. And he’s in love with you. God, I knew this was a horrible idea, letting you go up there unsupervised.”

“Whoa, there, Baldwin. Unsupervised? I’m not fourteen.”

“No, but you are hopelessly naive when it comes to Memphis. You’ve never been able to see him for who he is. For what he is willing to do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Taylor. Take the blinders off. You can’t tell me that he didn’t make a move on you.”

She got quiet. Deception was one thing, sins of omission. He’d been doing that to her for years. But openly lying to Baldwin? She couldn’t do it. She hoped he never asked again.

“I figured,” he said bitterly.

“It’s not what you think,” she said finally.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s ten times worse than I could possibly imagine. He can’t be trusted, Taylor. My instincts are rarely wrong about people. I don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“What, you think I’m in danger from him now? That’s insane.”

“Is it? Did he tell you why his wife and child died, Taylor?”

“It was an accident. He took me there. To the bridge. Dulsie Bridge. Sam told me that’s where Evan died.”

“She was running away from him.”

“Where in the hell do you get that from? Why would he lie?”

He heaved a great, knowing sigh.

“I got it from my contacts. His family managed to keep things relatively quiet-it wasn’t seemly. But word on the street was they were breaking up.”

“No way. He adored Evan.”

“Again with the naivete. You’ve consistently taken Memphis at face value since you met him.”

“Baldwin, I-”

“They’d been fighting, Taylor. Evan wanted to leave him, was considering divorce. He was in London, working all the time. Some sources say he had an affair and she found out. They had a huge row and she took off, then drove her car off the bridge. He was the reason she died. It was ruled a suicide. They didn’t even do an autopsy. The family kept everything completely hush-hush. But what if it wasn’t, Taylor? What if he killed her?”

Now that pissed her off. “Oh please. He was in London when she died. You’re just trying to turn me off him. No, Baldwin. That’s not possible. Memphis wouldn’t do that. That’s not what happened. No one knew why Evan was up there. He told me.”

“He’s supposedly in London right now, too, Taylor. And another of ‘his women’ is spinning out of control. Who are you going to believe, Taylor? Me? Or him?”

The file. She had the file from Memphis’s office. She scrambled to the desk and found it, hidden right where she’d left it.

“I’ll call you back,” she said. He started to disagree, but she repeated herself. “I will call you back. Bye.”

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.