Where All the Dead Lie

CHAPTER TWELVE

Taylor was usually a good flier. She was in first class on British Airways, the red-eye, cuddled into the full-length seat, a glass of champagne at her elbow. She couldn’t get settled though. This whole trip had her anxious. She fidgeted, played with her hair, annoyed she couldn’t put it up-her normal ponytail seemed to make the headaches worse. It started that way. Now she kept it down to cover the scar on her temple.

Baldwin had seen her off at the airport with a bitter kiss. That had been enough to set her off, make her second-guess her decision. She’d never seen him so withdrawn.

But she had to do this. She had to get away. She was sick and tired of being the victim of the story. She was ready to get back to herself, and she truly believed some time alone, away from everyone, would help.

Her voice wasn’t coming back, but little bits and pieces of words seemed to find their way out. It gave her hope. She was horribly raspy, even in a soft whisper, her usually huskiness even more so, but somehow things felt…better.

She could have started healing a hell of a lot faster if she’d just given in and forgiven Baldwin sooner. The stress and pressure of being mad at him was certainly a culprit. She’d done one more quick session with Victoria Willig, too, which seemed to help. The horrors from November felt like they were fading a bit. She would get herself back all the way after her stint in Scotland.

For nontherapeutic reasons, she was looking forward to the week ahead. She’d been to the U.K. on a school trip in high school, a ten-day whirlwind around Scotland, Wales, Ireland and England. She’d been entranced by two places: the Lake District-she’d been deep into her Wordsworth stage-and all of Scotland. Wales had fared well in her memory, a late night at a pub in the wilderness, but it was Scotland that always came to mind when she thought back. The barren green-and-brown hills, the rocky crags, the lochs, nestled valleylike into the surrounding mountains, misty and fittingly mysterious, like they held the answer to a millennia of secrets. No wonder the legend of Loch Ness persevered. It was easy to believe that the still waters were a part of the land that time forgot.

Memphis had warned her that he wouldn’t be able to stay long. He’d been assigned to the case he mentioned: three missing girls. He could do some work from the estate, but the brass was the brass, which meant he would only be able to sneak away from London for a bit.

Taylor nursed a tiny bit of jealousy after hearing the stress in his voice. She never felt so alive as when she was working a breaking case. She could hear the worry and excitement in his words, feel his distraction, his desire to solve the mystery. She loved that feeling. She missed it.

The champagne had dulled the headache, but she took a pain pill just in case. She let her eyes close. One thing she knew for sure-she was going to be very careful around Memphis Highsmythe.

Taylor woke as the plane landed, the jolt and reek of the tires immediate in her nose. She was shocked at how rested she felt. Even just a couple of hours of shut-eye could rejuvenate her completely. She fluffed her hair, over the scar, allowing it to hang over her shoulders, then gathered her bags and wandered off the plane, stretching and yawning. Customs was bogged down, the line winding around the building in serpentine circles, sleepy, unkempt people being herded into their pens. It was going to take her forever to circumnavigate.

“Welcome to England!”

Taylor jumped a mile. Memphis was standing three feet away, his face partially hidden behind a massive bouquet of fat roses. White ones, not red. Red would have been too inappropriate. He was waiting for her.

She smiled wide and waved. She went to Memphis, accepted the beautiful cabbage roses, and let him kiss her on both cheeks. He smelled good, like wind and rain and man. She felt that familiar tick in her heart that she’d thought she was done with, which made her mad. She scowled, and Memphis looked hurt. She stepped back from him, confused.

“My schedule shifted and I thought I’d walk you through customs, free up some time for you. The weather may turn and interrupt our travels. You don’t mind, do you?”

She shook her head. Pointed at her throat, a reminder that she couldn’t talk.

“Ah, well. I’d hoped seeing me would bring it all rushing back.”

Memphis picked up her bag, started off toward the customs sign. He looked good, blond and tight, strolling through Heathrow. Women turned to look at him, but he was unaware of the attention. Completely oblivious to his effect. Baldwin was like that. Only had eyes for her. She couldn’t help the comparisons-Baldwin, dark and tall and lean and chiseled, Memphis shorter, more compact, but just as pretty. Two very pretty men.

They were two sides of a coin. Both good, she had no doubts about that. But there the similarities stopped. Baldwin was rational, whereas Memphis was unreasonable. Violence hid just underneath his polished surface. Memphis didn’t look like a brawler, more like a cobra swaying in the breeze. His whole countenance sent off distinct signals-you knew to leave well enough alone or get bitten.

Both smart, both educated, both in love with her. She stopped herself. Comparing them wasn’t smart.

Memphis looked back over his shoulder and winked at her. No, all would be well. She had a feeling Baldwin may have had a chat with Memphis, told him to behave. She didn’t blame him. Memphis wasn’t good at playing with his own toys. And just in case it became necessary, Taylor had written up a stern letter explaining the ground rules. She was hoping it wouldn’t be needed, but she found it entirely impossible to predict Memphis’s behavior. He could swing between Lothario and Lancelot at a moment’s notice. And she, fickle beast, seemed to get caught in his ebb and flow as if he were the moon and she the tides. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of that sensation.

Memphis was prattling on as he led her to the front of the line, making small talk.

“I hope you won’t be too jet-lagged, but I’ve set up a breakfast meeting tomorrow with Madeira James, the doctor friend that I mentioned. I believe you’ll enjoy her company, Taylor. She is a smart, lovely woman. She’s taken good care of me since…well, you know.”

Since Evan died. I know, Memphis. I know. No one should have to go through losing a spouse. And a child.

“Yes,” Taylor said, the word nearly guttural.

Memphis pulled up short. “Oh, my. That sounds like it hurts. Can you do more?”

She shook her head. It wasn’t the pain that stopped her from talking, just the memories. Now that she was starting to be able to vocalize again, she was suddenly shy, every word measured for worth, for impact. She hoped that would go away before too long as well.

They were up to the customs agent now, who asked them business or pleasure in a bored voice.

Memphis answered for her.

“Both.”

The man stamped her passport and handed it back. And just like that, she was free.