14

“But go through with the wedding?”

“Yes. Tomorrow goes off as pla

tion. At least not leave with so much up in the air. There’s obviously something major at stake here. They’re killing witnesses. Frank, Saraya. Who knows who else. Couple that with the Snow White copycat, and I just don’t feel right about leaving at all.”

Baldwin rose and crossed the room to her, put a hand under her chin and forced her to look into his eyes. “You know there’s a good chance it won’t resolve itself soon.”

Taylor shook her head. “No. It will. I can feel it about to break. I just know it will.”

He leaned over and kissed her, and she nearly melted with their joining. The man could lay one on, that was for sure. When they came up for air, she put a hand on his chest.

“Do that again and I won’t be leaving.”

“I don’t mind if you stay.” He leaned into her again, but she pushed him back with a smile.

“Seriously.”

“We can postpone the honeymoon if you want. That won’t be a big deal.”

“You’re sure?”

“No. I want to get the hell out of Dodge, but I can’t leave this behind any easier than you. So yeah, let me make some calls. Put everything on a temporary hold.”

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“You’re the greatest man in the world, you know that?”

He just turned and raised an eyebrow at her, a blatant invitation. She shook her head, laughing. “I’m going to head out. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

She kissed Baldwin hard on the lips, then drove downtown, checked into the Hermitage Hotel, got her room and climbed into the bed. Relief flooded her system. There was no way she would have been able to leave the city behind with all of the issues they were having. She needed to catch the Snow White and his copycat, find Jane Macias and figure out who killed Frank Richardson. Then her con

science would be clear enough to allow her to leave it all behind.

Feeling more settled than she had in a week, Taylor snuggled into the luxurious sheets. Sleep overtook her. She dreamed of the New Year’s Eve party, the details sharper, more immediate.

She was tucked in her little spot at the top of the stairs. She could see the ball going on below her. There seemed to be hundreds of people, all dressed in the most elabo

rate of costumes. The music was loud, and the people twirled around like marionettes, flutes of champagne dis

appearing at an alarming rate—tuxedo-clad waiters circling the foyer and ballroom, keeping the guests well supplied.

Taylor felt herself waiting, impatient, while the scene played out.

The heavy woman in the Marie Antoinette wig, pow

dered face, the black triangle patch meant to be stuck to the corner of her mouth askew and half-unglued, sat down hard on the bottom step—a full forty-seven steps away 242

J.T. Ellison

from Taylor in her little hiding place. Taylor felt the con

cussion of the woman’s sudden not-quite fall, smelled the alcohol waft up the stairs mixed with another scent, a powdery musky smell. The woman giggled and shooed her would-be rescuers away. After three waiters had helped her up, she waddled off, dress swinging precari

ously. Her hair had come undone and was sticking out from under the wig, long and dark against the creamcolored corset. Then there was quiet for a few moments before her father and mother came into view, several people at their heels.

Her mother was complaining about the woman who was dressed so similarly to her. The women were simper

ing back and forth to one another, commiserating. How rude to neglect to check with the hostess about her costume.

The men talked loudly, expansive with drink.

“Win Jackson, you’ve obviously made a deal with the devil,” a dark-haired man brayed.

“Yeah, Win, your own little Manderley, is it? What did you do in a past life to get so goddamned lucky in this one?

The judge should have thrown you in jail, not dismissed the charges.” A sandy-haired man with thick black glasses smacked her father on the shoulder. Win laughed.

“Manderley? Shit, let’s just hope the place doesn’t burn to the ground. Kitty would have my head.”

Then one of the men coughed, put his hand up to his mouth….

Taylor fast-forwarded the dream. She remembered the light.

Despite being tucked back in by Mrs. Mize, the music 14

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was so loud that she hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d crawled out of bed again, wandered unseen to the top of the stairs and secreted herself in the little space she called her own.

In the foyer of the big house, there was a sparkling lamp, which was built out of a multitude of pretty little chunks of crystal. It sat on a Louis XIII desk, against the damask wallpaper. It was nearly white, there were so many shiny pieces, and it caught the light of the chandelier above it.

Taylor focused on the lamp. She could see the reflec

tions of the people passing by in the ballroom to the left, twirling, waltzing, drinking and sitting. She could smell the champagne, smell the sweaty reek that wafted up the stairs. It was late, they were deep into the party now. Someone had vomited, she could remember the slight stench coming from the hallway bath. Her mother had given up—the Marie Antoinette wig was sitting on a ladder-backed chair. She’d taken it off at some point, still miffed at her guest’s gauche behavior. Taylor imagined her mother was still muttering about the fat old cow ruining her look.

Manderley, Manderley, Manderley. There was some

thing…

The room phone woke her. Sunlight was streaming in the windows. She rolled and answered the phone, vaguely aware that something wasn’t quite right. A cheerful voice told her this was the 8:00 a.m. wake-up call she’d asked for. She thanked them and hung up.

What was it? Something from her dream, the party, her parents.

Manderley.

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J.T. Ellison

Her heart beat a little harder.

That was the name of Burt Mars’s new company. The Manderley REIT.

Twenty-Six

Nashville, Te