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J.T. Ellison
lock their doors and keep their own youngsters under a watchful eye. The whisper campaign was out in full force. The Snow White Killer had truly reappeared after a twenty-year hiatus; the entire city was in a panic. And he was the cause of it. Just as he was in the past. Granted, his hands were gnarled with arthritis; he may never have the strength again to wield the knife at the throats of i
ties stuck his head through the door.
“Yesh, Father?”
He looked at his spawn, the watery blue eyes, the weak chin. That boy was going to be the death of him.
“Come in here, and stop that lisping!” he roared. Obediently, the son made his way into the room, coming to stand at the foot of his father’s chair. Snow White gazed upon his progeny, his stomach curdling. The boy was a freak—wide, pouting lips, the bottom thick as a finger, so loose as to look like red rubber. His chin tucked neatly into his neck, sloped from bottom lip to clavicle with almost no indentation or marking indicating there was a jawline to prop up his face. His eyes were slanted down and the irises cloudy. He’d been sightless since the age of three, couldn’t see the wreck his own father had become.
“Yess, Father,” he said again, calmly. A long sibilance 14
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replaced the lisp, the boy’s best attempt to work within the confines of his deformity. He stood tall, his shoulders back, ready to accept whatever his father could give—be it love or hate.
Snow White was both sickened and proud. It had taken years of work for the child to lose that lisp, though if he hurried his speech it came back with a vengeance. His mood softened when he saw the boy try. He noticed a silver object in his hand and the emotions mixed again.
“You’ve been practicing again, I see.” That fucking flute. Fit so perfectly under that fleshy lip, replacing the chin that wasn’t there with silver.
“Yess, ssir. I wass hoping to try out thiss year.”
“You know you can’t do that. You’ll have to content yourself to playing for the cardinals in the backyard. The symphony doesn’t take blind musicians.”
“Beethoven wass deaf. They let him work.”
“Now, now, don’t sulk. Take your flute and go. Send along Marcia, tell her I’m ready.” He dismissed him with a wave of the hand, something the boy couldn’t see but could sense. He left the room, leaving Snow White alone with his thoughts.
Thirteen
Taylor headed to the Criminal Justice Center and brought the Te
speaking. A faint shiver ran through her body on a continu
ous loop, starting at her head, making its way to her toes and starting over again. Taylor knew it wasn’t from the cold.
“Daphne,” she said softly, not wanting to startle the girl. Luminous brown eyes turned to Taylor, full of empti
ness. As her head turned, the nonglare-treated lenses of her glasses briefly purpled as the light from the snow glanced off them.
“Daphne,” Taylor repeated. “It’s going to be okay. Just stay with me, all right?”
“It’s my fault,” the girl muttered.
“What do you mean, it’s your fault?”
“Jane was mad. My boyfriend was over on a ‘school night.’” She made little quote signs with her fingers.
“So she left?”
They were getting close to the CJC, but Taylor wanted a few more minutes alone with Daphne. She continued 14
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straight on Broadway, taking the long way through the strip, turning on Second Avenue to worm their way up through the clubs and nightspots. Despite the detour, they’d nearly reached the CJC when Daphne spoke again.
“She left. Grabbed one of my books off the shelf and took off in a huff. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m so sorry. I should have called the police when she didn’t come home. I just figured she was pissed off, decided to stay over at Skip’s or something.”
Taylor’s radar went off. “Skip?”
Daphne rolled her eyes and waved her hand in the air simultaneously. “He’s this guy who’s been mooning around after her since she moved to town. She went on a couple of dates with him back in the summer, but they’re just friends. He bugs her.”
“Do you know how to get a hold of him, Daphne?”
She turned sharply, staring at Taylor. “You think Skip did this?”
“I want to talk to him, that’s all. Hopefully, there’s nothing wrong. Your roommate just spent the night elsewhere. But if you have a way I can contact him, that would be very helpful.”
Daphne bent her head, tears dripping off her sharp chin.
“Jane has his number in her cell phone. I don’t know it.”
“Okay. That’s okay. Don’t cry. We’ll figure it out.”
Taylor pulled into a parking spot in the lot behind head
quarters. They got out of the truck. Taylor marched the girl around the side of the building, up the back stairwell and through the door. It was stiflingly warm in the hallway, and barely better in the homicide offices.
Taylor got the weepy Daphne seated in her office, then made a quick run to the Ladies’. After splashing her face 128
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with water and brushing out her hair, she felt a little more human. She realized she hadn’t thought of the wedding for hours, and smiled.
Her boots made a clopping noise on the linoleum, a singsong beat that got stuck in her head, ca-chun, ca-chun. Snapping her fingers in time, she stepped into the homicide office and ran into a wall.
A female wall, to be exact. Taylor stumbled back in surprise. The doorway was blocked by a tall redheaded woman balanced with an arm slung across the opening, as if she knew whoever wanted into the room would have to get through her first.
The blow moved the redhead forward three or four inches. She whipped around with a sneer, then saw who was trying to get in the room. The sneer morphed into a semblance of a smile.
“You must be Taylor Jackson. I’m Dr. Charlotte Douglas, FBI.” Charlotte stuck out a hand and Taylor accepted it. They eyed each other coolly. Charlotte made no move to get out of Taylor’s way. Taylor dropped her hand and cleared her throat; Charlotte continued to appraise her frankly.
“Excuse me,” she said finally.
“Oh, sorry, silly me. Whatever was I thinking? I didn’t mean to be in your way, Lieutenant.” She didn’t move. There was the slightest bit of mockery in Charlotte’s tone, and Taylor narrowed her eyes in response. A deep voice grumbled past Charlotte’s body check.
“Knock it off, Charlotte.”
Charlotte’s eyes flashed and she stepped out of the doorway just far enough for Taylor to stride through, shooting daggers at Baldwin, who was sitting at the desk 14
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just outside her office. He jumped to his feet, reached to stop Taylor, but she was past him in an instant. At the threshold to her office, she stopped and turned.
“Miss Douglas, it’s—”
“Doctor.” The cold, imperious tone was meant to in
timidate, but all it did was a
“Fine. Dr. Douglas. I’ll be with you shortly. I’ve had a development that I need to tend to immediately. Please, make yourself at home.”
She turned to Baldwin. “Could I see you for a moment?”
She heard Charlotte giggle as Baldwin stepped into the office and shut the door behind them. Baldwin started to talk, but Taylor cut him off.