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How could this be happening again?
Evan was never a strong woman. And he’d been attracted to her like a moth to the flame, his chivalrous streak overwhelmed. He remembered the night he met her. At Oxford, at the Playhouse. Tryouts for Hamlet. They’d sat together and shared a cigarette, then a finger of scotch, for courage. He was shocked at how nervous he felt. He went on and did his lines, was well received. But Evan—Evan became her role. She captivated. Drew a standing ovation from the group of drama students who were casting the roles.
She’d been humoring him. She was a fine actress. It was only on the stage that she left behind her fears, her concerns.
He’d been cast as Laertes. Evan was, of course, Ophelia.
If he’d only known then. If he’d seen it in her eyes. That terrible foreshadowing of her eventual end.
They’d kept the truth within the family. The media had been held at bay.
He still had the note she’d left. He wanted to burn it, but it had been Trixie who stopped him.
“Someday, you’ll need this. Put it away and forget about it until then.”
He thought they’d arrested Evan’s psychosis. Maddee had worked with her. They brought in a specialist, one trained to deal with nervous disorders. But nothing worked.
And then she’d fallen pregnant.
And they’d all been so very thrilled.
And she improved, dramatically. Became the old Evan.
He’d coddled her. They’d had an idyllic few months in London, nesting in the Chelsea flat.
Then he’d taken her to the castle to let his parents dote on her. He’d gone back to London to work. That had been the mistake, in the end. Her isolation brought the old fears back to the surface. She started seeing things. Losing weight. Accusing him of the most despicable acts. She was beyond his reach.
He hadn’t known what else to do. They’d been considering committal when she snuck the keys to his car and crept away, found her way to Dulsie Bridge.
And drove the car off the edge.
The idea of her screams invaded his head. He couldn’t see this happen again.
Traffic was moving. Slowly. But moving.
Taylor might feel it was a disloyalty, but he’d deal with that later. It was time for him to call Maddee.
He looked at his mobile, saw the red light flashing. A message. He put it on speaker.
Speak of the devil.
“Memphis, it’s Maddee. Your girl here has had quite a psychotic break. I’m trying to find a way to sedate her, but she’s locked in her room. I’ll—“
The phone cut off. His battery, damn it all.
It was happening again.
What had he done?
CHAPTER FORTY
Baldwin paced through Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport. His flight to London had been cancelled. Everything into the U.K. was grounded for the foreseeable future.
He alternated trying Taylor’s cell with calls to Memphis. Neither one was picking up, and he was ready to pull his hair out.
He had to get to Scotland. It didn’t matter that the airports were closed. Taylor needed him.
He couldn’t drive, obviously.
It was time to call in the big guns.
He called Atlantic.
“Good job on Julius. Is there something else you need?”
“I need to get to Scotland. Just outside of Edinburgh.”
“Impossible. The airports are closed.”
“Atlantic, it’s an emergency. So help me God, if you don’t get me there, I will go public with your little operation.”
Atlantic chuckled, his laughter cold.
“You’d be dead before you uttered a word, Baldwin. But let’s not go there. I think of you like a son. And since it’s so vital that you reach your destination, get yourself to the following coordinates. And be prepared for a bumpy ride.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
It took Sam hours to clear the crime scene. Marcus, diligent, talented detective that he was, had pi
All they knew was that Bowerman pla
They didn’t believe her.
The dead man’s fingerprints registered back to a man named Joseph Trimble. Trimble was homeless, and according to a quick check with the folks at the mission, Trimble had a benefactor, someone he claimed was “helping him back on his feet.” Proving it was Bowerman was a different story.
On the surface, it seemed he’d been setting him up to be the fall guy for the bank robberies. But Marias González had ruined the plan, and Bowerman had been forced to stop her.
It was far from a tidy little scheme. It was unfortunate that they didn’t know where Bowerman was truly headed. The Regretful Robber, at least for the time being, had gotten away.
Sam finally got home at eleven-thirty, only six hours later than she’d been expected. Simon had put the twins down and was waiting for her with an open bottle of wine. Honestly, all she wanted to do was fall into the bed and sleep forever, but she accepted the offering and sat at the kitchen table with him for a few minutes.
“We need a vacation,” he said.
“I couldn’t agree more.” She accepted a glass of wine from him. “Where do you want to go?”
“Somewhere warm.”
“Can you leave the lab?” Simon ran Private Match, which specialized in ru
“Yes. I think you and I need to find ourselves again. Maybe think about getting pregnant?”
He looked so hopeful. She didn’t know how to tell him she wasn’t ready.
That she didn’t know if she’d be ready ever again.
She was saved from answering by the ringing of her cell phone. She glanced at the ID: Taylor. Finally.
“Baby, I need to take this. We’ll talk more later, okay?”
Simon was not happy with her. “Can’t you put this conversation first? Really, Sam. This is important.”
“It’s Taylor. Baldwin and I have both been trying to reach her for hours. Just give me a few minutes, okay?”
Simon stalked off toward their bedroom. Shit.
But this was something that couldn’t be helped. Taylor needed her.
She answered the phone. “Taylor Bethany Jackson, I have been worried sick about you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Birds were pecking at her head.
For a moment she thought she was back in Nashville, at the entrance to the Snow White’s house, with those damn birds chirping. She’d felt that way when she woke up in the hospital too, that incessant beeping crowding its way into her head. But this, this wasn’t the same.
She felt empty. Her throat, her head, her arms, everything hurt.
Taylor was afraid to move. She knew she’d been sick last night, very, very sick, that she’d gotten a violent migraine that had left her unable to move. Seeing things. Hearing things.
Feeling things.
She cracked an eyelid.
The world didn’t explode.
She cracked the other. Dragged herself upright. It was morning. There was brightness streaming through the window. It didn’t burn, so that was a good sign.
What happened last night?