Where All The Dead Lie. J.T. Ellison

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ and waiting.

      “Hungry?” Baldwin asked.

      She nodded. She was starving. She wrote Prince’s.

      “Hot chicken? At 9:00 in the morning?”

      Her mouth started to water at the mere thought. When she was coming up on the force, they ate at Prince’s almost every night shift, right around 3:00 a.m. Ridiculously hot fried chicken, full of spices and peppers, a true Nashville delicacy. It brought tears to your eyes. She’d seen more than one tough cop use the spices in the chicken to cover real tears after a particularly nasty night.

      Baldwin laughed briefly. “Prince’s it is.” He turned right onto Charlotte. She stared up the hill, wishing she could go straight to the CJC right now, announce herself and jump on the closest case. Commander Huston wouldn’t like it. She’d given strict instructions about Taylor’s time off. Everyone was coddling her, when in truth a little action might shake things loose. She was mentally stable, the wounds were healed, the headaches were manageable, most of the time. She just couldn’t talk. Really, that wasn’t much of a handicap, was it?

      Unless no one believed that was all that was wrong with her.

      Baldwin was playing with the steering wheel.

      “So you’re cool with seeing Willig?”

      Taylor nodded, shrugged.

      He took his right hand off the wheel, laid it gently on her wrist. “Honey, remember, I’ve been there. I know what it feels like to revisit a nightmare. To feel like I somehow failed, even when it wasn’t my fault.”

      She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. Solicitousness was bad. She could handle most anything—anger, fear, pain, concern. But pity set her off. She was too strong to be pitied, damn it.

      Baldwin just wouldn’t let up. Every word from his mouth was like stepping on hot coals. Her teeth clenched.

      “We can talk about it anytime you want. I want to help, Taylor. Let me help you.”

      She responded with a deafening sigh.

      Leave. Me. Alone.

      They drove on in strained silence until they reached the trailer that housed the restaurant. She was hoping that the spices would loosen things up in her throat, like really hot tea. It hadn’t worked yet, but she was willing to try most anything.

      Her cell rang as they pulled into the lot. It was Dr. Benedict’s office. She opened the phone and handed it to Baldwin. He uh-huh’d for a second, then looked over at Taylor. “Today at one o’clock with Willig sound good?”

      She nodded. The sooner the better.

      He hung up and handed the phone back to her. They got out of the car, let the chilled air surround them. There was a stream of warmth coming out of the side door to the trailer. It enveloped her so thoroughly she almost forgot it was winter.

      They ordered their chicken—extra hot for her, medium for him—then sat at the picnic table with a bundle of napkins, waiting for their food to be ready.

      “Wanna talk?” Baldwin asked softly. She turned to him, his clear green eyes full of empathy, and shut down. He was doing it again, that look of sadness, of compassion. Couldn’t he just yell and scream like a normal man, get pissed at her for giving him the cold shoulder? He was too understanding. Goddamn it.

      How about you go first. A little more detail about your son would be nice. How are things in adoption land?

      He flinched as if she’d struck him. Perfect. She’d wounded him right back.

      Baldwin stared at her for a second, anger boiling beneath the surface, his lips in a thin, forbidding line. Then he took a deep breath and shook his head, refusing the engagement.

      He was so damn patient with her, and she was getting really frustrated with him. They needed to have a knock-down, drag-out fight, clear the air, find a way back to themselves. She’d been poking at him, and he’d been unwilling to react, nor to discuss his side of the issue. It just served to make her more upset. She wanted a fight, even if she couldn’t actually yell at him.

      She turned her back and watched the steam rise out of a manhole cover, venting thermals from beneath the earth. This was not working. Despite her physical problems and her wild mood swings, hurting Baldwin had become a source of satisfaction for her, and that didn’t bode well for their life together. She twisted her engagement ring around her finger, the Asscher-cut diamonds catching the sun and sparkling onto the dirty gray pavement, a symbol of hope. If she’d just let it be. Get the hell out of her own way and allow things to get back to normal.

      Taylor had never been in this situation before. Probably because anytime a relationship started to head south, she’d just ended it cleanly and walked away. No sense in struggling to make it work. But this, this was different. Baldwin was different. She needed to decide what she wanted from him. He needed to do the same. They couldn’t keep dancing around like this, cutting each other from different angles. One of the cuts was going to bleed too much, and then it would be over. And she didn’t think that was what she wanted.

      Baldwin handed her a Coke, and she took the opportunity to down a Percocet. Her head was starting to pulse, and she had the whole day in front of her. It would be the first pill of many, she could tell that already.

      They ate in silence, then got back in the car and headed home. There was nothing for her to do downtown anyway; her appointment wasn’t until 1:00. He pulled into the drive way, into the garage, entered the house, all without saying a word. Inside, he excused himself to go to his office to get some work done. Taylor was left adrift, feeling annoyed with herself for digging at him, sorry that he wasn’t near her, glad he wasn’t, and confused about what all that meant.

      At this rate, she was going to drive herself mad.

      She needed to kill some time. She could read, but that would make the headache worse. Exercise, but she’d already done that this morning, before the doctor. She decided to check her email, and was immediately glad that she did.

      There was a note from Memphis. Generally a highly diverting event.

      James “Memphis” Highsmythe, so dubbed by his classmates at Eton after a trip to Graceland in Tennessee when he was a child, was a friend, a detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police in London. He was also the Viscount Dulsie, and a confirmed rake. He’d worked a case with Baldwin and ended up in Nashville, made a play for Taylor’s affections in Italy, and was a source of annoyance, amusement, and lately, comfort to Taylor. Undeniably a friend who wanted to be more. Much, much more.

      The email’s subject line was blank, as usual. Memphis wasn’t one for pith when it wasn’t needed. She clicked it open.

      Francesco Stradivari just had a birthday. Can you imagine what it must have been like to have a father whose work was respected the world over? Did you know he forged his father’s signature on a few of the pieces in late 1730’s? Today is also my father’s birthday, and I’ve promised him a night out. I’m catching the train to Edinburgh at four. What sort of brilliance lies ahead for you?

      Taylor calculated the time difference. Memphis was six hours ahead of her. He would probably be on the train now. He often wrote to her while traveling. It helped him pass the time.

      She СКАЧАТЬ