Where All the Dead Lie

The port was warm and delicious. She finished the first glass and started in on another. Her head was still hurting, so she set the drink aside and took all her medicine, including the melatonin Maddee had given her.

She sat at her computer and saw Sam had written her back. She didn’t want to deal with that, either, but she sucked it up. Like tearing off a Band-Aid, it was better to get the worst over as quickly as possible.

She opened the email.

Dear Taylor,

Yes, you are a total fool. I told you this would happen.

I don’t know what to say about the kiss. You’re a big girl, and you’ll make the right decision.

But there is something I want to make sure you know.

Dulsie Bridge was the place where Evan died. Did he tell you that while he was kissing you? Did he tell you his wife plunged to her death over the side of that same bridge as he was making a move on you?

I know you haven’t spent a lot of time looking into Memphis’s background, so I’ve done it for you. Here’s a few links to the story, so you can see for yourself. Make sure you read all the way through them, honey. He is not the knight in shining armor he makes himself out to be.

I can’t tell you what to do, but if I were in your shoes, I’d make sure he stayed very far away.

Take care, Taylor. You don’t want to ruin everything you’ve fought so hard to get.

Love,

Sam

“Son of a bitch,” Taylor said without thinking about it. Her voice sounded foreign, thick and deep, her usual huskiness masked by disuse.

“Shit.”

Okay then. Cursing was good. Could she do any more?

“Memphis, what were you thinking?”

She breathed in deeply, a huge sigh of relief. She wasn’t completely broken. A little drunk, a little stoned, and terribly distraught, but not broken. Not anymore. Maddee and her hypnosis had proven that. And now Taylor had proven it to herself.

Finally.

Memphis had promised to heal her.

She shoved that thought away and clicked on the first link Sam had sent. It was a newspaper article, in the Scotsman, from December of 2008. She read it quickly, her stomach roiling.

Sam was right. Evan had died at Dulsie Bridge.

Oh, God. He’d been kissing her where his wife died?

Jesus. Jesus H. Christ on a Popsicle stick. What the hell was all that, then? What sort of strange compulsion had led him to take her to the very spot his wife died to try and kick-start their relationship?

Taylor hit Delete, then went into her trash folder and deleted the past two emails from Sam.

She didn’t want to know any more.

No wonder he’d gotten quiet as they left the bridge. He was thinking about Evan.

Taylor recognized a long dormant feeling springing up in her chest. For God’s sake. She was jealous. Jealous of a dead woman.

Memphis leaving was definitely the best thing. This little crush would be extinguished and she could go back to focusing on her health.

She tried to read a little bit more, but she couldn’t pay attention to the story anyway. Not after Sam’s little bombshell. And her eyes were crossing. She was amazed at how quickly she’d gotten tired. It had been a long, emotional, weird day. She decided to chuck it all and start fresh in the morning. Ten minutes later, brushed and washed, she collapsed in the bed, lids heavy. The wonderfully unfamiliar sense of being tired and able to sleep carried her off quickly.

She was in a car, the engine revving as she took the hairpin curves faster and faster. Away. She just needed to get away.

The bridge was up ahead. She swung the car to a stop. Memphis stood on the stone wall, beckoning to her. He smiled, and she smiled back. Went to him. He took her in his arms, kissed her deeply.

“Evan. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

With a deep laugh, he hurled her over the edge.

The water was so cold. It rushed over her lap. She couldn’t feel her legs. The water was rising, rising. Her chest was underwater now, then her jaw. She was drowning. As the water streamed over her head, she screamed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

It was half past two when she jerked awake, bladder full and insistent. The fire had died down and the air in the room was chilled. The floor was freezing on her bare feet. She went to the bathroom, cursing not sleeping in socks. She hurried back to the bed, gathered the blankets to her chin, then snaked a hand out into the cold air to turn on the electric warmer.

She lay quietly, listening to the house creak and moan around her. There was something about the place after nightfall that was disconcerting. It was like being the only guest in a very large hotel, and the entire staff has gone home for the evening. There were unfamiliar noises, and what sounded like footsteps in the hall that she could only imagine was one of the servants creeping around. Maybe she needed to back off the Percocets? The dreams were getting crazier and crazier.

She turned and faced the window, and let her eyes close. She still felt tired. Sleep might come back to her.

She was thinking about the bridge, about Evan going through the windshield, imagining what Memphis would have done if she hadn’t stopped him, and why in the world he’d take her to the spot his wife died and not share that information, when she felt something touch her back.

She jumped straight out of the side of the bed closest to the window, whirled back around to see who was there. The room was empty, the air black and thick. She reached for the lamp, clicked the light. It didn’t come on. The bulb must have blown. She inched back toward the window, hoping to pull open the drapes and let some light spill in from the outside. She got a hand on the thick velvet and started to pull it aside when the light by the bed turned on with a crack.

The bulb lit up the room. It was empty. And here she was, crouched against the window, looking like a complete fool. She was letting the ghost stories get too far in her head.

She marched back to the bed, took the cord of the offending lamp in hand, and clicked the button. The light extinguished. She clicked it again and it came on. Obviously there was a short in the cord somewhere; that’s why it hadn’t turned on immediately. Or the bulb itself was affected by the temperature, needed to warm up before illuminating.

She felt like a right idiot. She went to the fire and stirred it, put on another couple of logs so it would heat the room again. Then she climbed back into the bed and turned off the light.

She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, watching the light from the fire tango through the shadows. The furniture felt like it was moving. She wished Memphis would come and lie next to her. She’d slept better with him near. It wasn’t like her to be nervous in strange places. She had to admit, it would be nice to have a warm body next to her.

She was just starting to drift back to sleep when she felt the feathery light touch, cold as ice, on her forehead. Right on the healing bullet wound. Her eyes flew open and she tried to move, to get out of the bed, to turn on the light—something, anything—but she was stuck, arms at her sides as if bound there. She couldn’t raise her head, couldn’t turn it. Something was on her chest—a weight holding her down. She started to scream, fought to rise, and the thing put its arms around her and hugged. She felt the cold tendrils shimmying up and down her back.

She screamed again, her cries echoing through the room, and felt an answering laugh. She stopped, and the hold around her body loosened.

I’m dreaming. I’m having another nightmare. I’m asleep. I do not believe in ghosts. Go away.