14

Fifty-Three

Three weeks later

H e sat in a quiet corner of the cafe, watching rain drizzle down the plate-glass window. He sipped a delicious concoction of chocolate and espresso, topped with fresh whipped cream and flakes of white chocolate. A decadent treat, a reward for all his hard work.

He licked a piece of chocolate off his lip and tapped the keys on the keyboard.

Taylor and Baldwin stumbled through the garage door into their kitchen, laden with suitcases and packages. The house felt empty, unused, and Taylor dropped her bags on the hardwood floor and took in the sight. Home. Their home.

“Let’s just leave these in the dining room and have a glass of wine. What do you think about that, cara? ”

Taylor turned to Baldwin. “I think that sounds like a lovely idea. How about you pour? I want to glance through this stack of mail real quick.”

He went to the wine refrigerator and started combing through the bottles. Taylor flicked through the pile of mail idly, not really that interested in what it contained, just trying to acclimate to being home. A white envelope caught her eye. It was addressed to her, under the wrong name. Mrs. Taylor Baldwin.

Well, they had certainly jumped the gun on that one. She assumed it was from someone who was attached to their postponed wedding, someone who didn’t know that they hadn’t gotten married.

She picked up the letter, slit the top with her opener. There was no return address, but it was postmarked three days earlier from Seattle. Seattle? They didn’t know anyone in Seattle. A single sheet of paper, folded three ways, was in the envelope. Something set off Taylor’s senses. She set the letter on the counter, grabbed two plastic sandwich Baggies from the second drawer and slipped them onto her hands.

She teased the letter out of the envelope, unfolded it and read the short message. Then she read it again, her heart beating just a little faster.

“Baldwin,” she called. “You need to see this.”

Her voice sounded strange, hollow, unreal. She watched Baldwin come back into the kitchen, saw him register that she was in operational mode, with the Baggies on her hands, and followed suit without asking why. He nodded at her, and she handed him the letter. He read it aloud, twice, to let the words sink in. He looked at Taylor.

“This is a problem.”

“You think?” She took the letter back from him, reread the lines and realized they might never have a moment’s peace.

Baldwin had retrieved his cell phone from his briefcase and was calling in to Quantico. They’d want to know all the details.

Taylor folded the letter up neatly and put it back in the envelope, the typewritten words burned into her mind.

An apprentice no more.

You may call me the Pretender.