Where All the Dead Lie

She stowed her embarrassment at him not bothering to mention their liaison. He was leaving it all up to her.

The day stretched before her. It was cold outside, but she definitely wanted a walk. Maddee would be here at ten to have her session. She had an hour to herself—maybe now would be the perfect time to stretch her legs. Or curl up and relax. She was awfully tired.

She glanced in the hall before she left the dining room. It was empty. Nothing lingering. Maddee’s hypnosis had helped her find a way back to her voice, but it seemed like she’d tapped into something else too, something darker. Maybe today they could exorcise those thoughts completely as well.

Taylor left the dining room, took a moment in the hall to orient herself, then set off for her stairs. It didn’t take long for her to get turned around. She backtracked and took the right staircase, found her hallway. But the door was in the wrong place. She realized she was standing in front of Memphis’s office.

Any port in a storm, she thought, and tried the knob.

It was locked.

She debated for half a second, then remembered the key in her back pocket. The door had an old-fashioned locking mechanism; it looked similar to the gate to the gardens.

Glancing over her shoulder one more time, she slid the key into the lock. Turned it. Was only half-surprised when it opened.

The skeleton key must be the master. For the whole castle.

He wouldn’t have given it to her if he didn’t want her to use it, right?

Rationalization was the most useful skill of all.

She slipped inside and shut the door behind her.

The office was strangely empty. There was no fire in the grate, and thankfully, unlike her dream, no blood dripping from the walls. Just Memphis’s elegant rolltop desk, left open, with stacks of paper on it. He was a horizontal filer. That was interesting. Baldwin was just the opposite. Everything had its place. His desk was always clean.

Now you’re going to compare their filing systems?

She shook her head. Comparing them, anything about them, was a path to sure destruction.

A discarded newspaper sat on top of the pile. Obviously the cleaning elves hadn’t made it to this room yet. She wondered what the newspaper held. She’d take it back to her room, cozy up to the fire for an hour, and read it before she met with Maddee. A normal morning thing to do.

A framed picture of Evan sat on the corner of Memphis’s desk. She hadn’t noticed it yesterday, but that didn’t mean anything. She hadn’t been snooping yesterday. She picked up the silver frame and looked at her host’s dead wife.

There was a resemblance between herself and Evan, without a doubt. She’d noted it in other photos before. But Evan looked so much more carefree in this photo than Taylor ever felt. Perhaps it was the weight of her job, what she saw, what she’d done, but Taylor didn’t ever remember feeling as light as Evan looked. She was a simpler woman. An easier woman. But of course, she was dead. Memphis must see something of a replacement in Taylor.

She set the photo down. No sense going there. Memphis had been clear about what he wanted, had shown her the possibilities. Regardless, he was her friend, nothing more.

So what was she doing in his office, looking through his desk?

She sat heavily in his desk chair. The scent of him, all leather and wood smoke, lingered in the room. He smelled different here than in America, where he’d been subjected to hotel soaps. Here, he smelled real. Maybe he was right not to mention anything. Maybe they could forget it ever happened. She wished to God it hadn’t. And she was going to have to bear that knowledge for the rest of her life.

A

Evan?

She glanced over her shoulder. Listened carefully. No one was around to see her sneak a peek.

The file was about an inch thick. She used a pencil to open it.

There was a picture of Evan on the top, and a pile of news paper clippings underneath. Taylor set the pencil down and leafed through them. As she already knew, the story of Evan’s death had made the front page of all of the U.K. papers. The Scotsman had done the most intensive stories, with deep back ground on Evan, her family, and her life.

Taylor realized it would take her hours to go through all the material. She didn’t know why this file was left out, practically in the open, for anyone to see. Anyone who had a key to his office, that is…

But Memphis was gone, and would be for a few days, at least. She might as well take it with her, read at her leisure. She needed to get going if she was going to make her meeting with Maddee anyway.

She tucked the file inside the newspaper, just in case one of the servants came along. If it were private, Memphis would have locked it up—heck, maybe he’d left it for her, knowing she was interested. Maybe it had answers to questions she didn’t know to ask.

As she turned to go, she saw a glimpse of red, just a quick flash out of the corner of her eye. Her heart rate sped up, and the hair on her arms stood on end. She forced herself to look into her peripheral vision. There was nothing.

Get a grip, Taylor. You’re being an absolute idiot.

She folded the newspaper around the file and stuck it under her arm. She started to stroll out the door, going for nonchalant. Two steps in, she tripped. The newspaper and the file flew out like a flushed quail. She reached to catch herself on the doorjamb. She tried to curse but nothing came out, which frustrated her even more. She looked at the floor and saw a small needlepoint-covered footstool. She kicked it over, then, feeling guilty, uprighted it and moved it out of the path to the desk. Stupid footstool.

The file’s contents were spread out in a five-foot radius. There was no way to cover up that she’d been looking through it now. She gathered all the paper up and managed to get out of Memphis’s office without further mishap. She hurried to her room, barred the door behind her and sighed in relief.

The fire was cozy, fresh tea had been laid out by the chair. She sat down, poured herself a cup, put the file with Evan’s stories in the top desk drawer and covered it with stationery. She’d read through it all later, try to get it back in order.

She opened the paper instead.

The front page focused on the latest tragedy on the A9 near Inverness, deemed one of the most dangerous roads in Scotland. They’d driven right past that spot yesterday. Creepy.

A fisherman had gone missing off the Hebrides. And there was a small story about the missing London girls. Memphis’s case.

She skipped the rest of the news and read about it with interest. Memphis had mentioned he wasn’t completely convinced that they were on the right path. Maybe she could help.

The paper had seized on the one thing the girls had in common—the church that Urq built.

Urq, as he called himself, was an interesting character. His real name was Roger Waterstone. He was the son of the famous British financier, Stephen Waterstone, and heir to the family fortune. He’d been educated at the finest schools, dated the finest women. For fun, he’d pursued a career as an architect.

Four years ago, he’d disappeared. Went to Bali for vacation and never came back. She remembered reading about the case; it was rather high-profile at the time.

Then his father died, and Roger reappeared, a changed man. He’d found God. He used some of his inheritance to start a church. Brought together people from all walks of life. Stopped short of saying he was the messiah, but Taylor couldn’t help but think this was a cult. It had all the markers.

If he wasn’t above murder to get his point across… How did his father die again?