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She got down on the floor and spread everything out before her. Took all the newspaper articles and put them in a pile. She put the handwritten notes in their own stack. She’d come back to them. She didn’t want to be any more biased than she already was before reading the newspaper clippings.
She sorted the clippings by date, then started to read.
Baldwin was right. News of Evan’s untimely death had been splashed across multiple U.K. newspapers, the stories sad and sober. But there was one little article, from an obscure U.K. gossip rag, that tore Evan and Memphis’s relationship to pieces. Memphis was treated with disdain, frank curiosity and downright nastiness. The woman he supposedly had the affair with was never named, but “sources” claimed she was a coworker.
She couldn’t believe Baldwin had fallen for all of this. Lies. It was clear as day. Anyone who heard Memphis talk about his wife could see he’d been madly in love with her. Couldn’t they?
Paparazzi photos of Memphis with a cute brunette triggered a memory—was that Penelope Micklebury, his DC? She grabbed her laptop and went to the Metropolitan Police website. A quick search through his division scored her a photograph. Yes, the mystery woman in the gossip magazines was his detective constable, then just an up-and-coming officer. Taylor knew that they certainly hadn’t had an affair. Pen was a lesbian.
Taylor was well acquainted with how gossip and i
She wondered if Evan had heard the rumors and gotten upset, then rushed off. If that was the case, no wonder Memphis blamed himself.
She sat back on her heels on the floor. She was being quick to defend Memphis. Did she really know him? She thought she did; he’d shown her his heart, after all. But he’d always kept secrets from her. Never fully let her in. And knowing she was engaged to marry Baldwin, he was still more than happy to compromise her and her relationship to get what he wanted.
No, Memphis wasn’t a saint. Far from it. But she wasn’t entirely convinced he was such a si
Until she moved to the pile of handwritten notes. They told a different, more lurid story.
She realized she’d never seen his writing before. It was an elegant scrawl, masculine; he’d used a fountain pen on most of the sheets.
Some of the notes were letters to Evan. Those were the hardest to read. They were all dated, some before, and some after Evan’s death. They told a clear story of pain and desire, with Memphis trying to tell his wife that, no, he wasn’t doing any of the things she was being told, that he loved her, loved their baby. He even offered to quit working for the Met and come home for good. She was reading a purely one-sided conversation, but Taylor got the idea. Evan had someone she trusted implicitly giving her the information about his exploits. Evan believed that single tabloid story over her own husband.
What a blow that must have been.
The letters from after her death were the worst. She skimmed these only, seeing his pain, watching him bleed on the page. Reading them thoroughly didn’t feel right. It was voyeuristic at best. She set them aside. She just couldn’t go there.
Why had he left this file out in the open for anyone to stumble upon? Had he wanted her to find them? She wondered where Evan’s letters back to Memphis were.
Okay, he hadn’t exactly left it out in the open. She’d used the key he gave her and broken into his office. But Memphis was a cop, used to compartmentalizing, aware of consequences if private material got out in the open. It just didn’t make sense. Unless he trusted that she wouldn’t invade his privacy by going in his office, sitting at his desk, picking up the newspaper and finding the file underneath. Why would he expect that she would do any of that? He wouldn’t.
But he had very purposefully given her the key.
She started to put the file away, saw one last piece of paper sticking out from the bottom of the stack. She pulled it out just to straighten it before she put it back with the others, couldn’t help but see the opening words:
I’m so, so sorry.
What was this now?
The paper was different than the letters, thick and white, with a ragged edge, like it had been ripped from a sewn or bound notebook. A journal, maybe? The ink was brighter, fresher, more recent. She read the words, felt her heart begin to flutter.
The letter was dated December 21.
It was Evan’s suicide note.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
21 December, 2008
Dear James,
I am so, so sorry to do this to you. But I can’t face another moment with these creatures in my head. They claw at me. They tear me to shreds. Their eyes follow me everywhere. I can’t escape. They make me want to die. So that is where I am going. To death. He will welcome me.
I will make sure he takes care of the baby. I do love you.
Evanelle
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Taylor felt like she was going to throw up again. Baldwin was right. Evan had committed suicide. Why hadn’t Memphis told her? Why hadn’t he trusted her? And why had he taken her to the spot where his wife took her own life if not to share in some sick, demented fantasy about the two of them?
And why did she completely understand how Evan felt? Last night, she would have welcomed death with open arms. It seemed like the best solution to her problems.
Taylor put the rest together. She was right in her earlier assumption. Trixie. Trixie was the common denominator.
She grabbed her computer. Maybe there was something in the woman’s past that would explain why she wanted to drive the women around Memphis crazy. Though finding details about a Scottish housekeeper on the internet was probably pointless. Family documents, other servants: that’s where she’d get the whole story. But why would they trust Taylor?
She opened her computer, the home page glowing in mundane comfort. There were several new emails in her inbox. One caught her eye.
It was from Memphis. Dated yesterday. So he had been in touch.
She clicked on the message.
Taylor, you are my heart’s desire. I will do anything to keep you. If you knew what I’ve been doing, you’d never forgive me. But I must have you. I must keep you. Taylor, I am so, so sorry for what I have to do. For what I have done. You will never know that I was responsible for her death. That I drove her over that precipice. And you won’t know what I’ve done to him, either.
You will be so sad, my love, but I will heal you. I will fix you. You will be happy again. I promise.
I love you.
Jesus, what was this?
A confession? For killing Evan. For killing his son? Or for what he pla
Maybe it wasn’t Trixie who was making her ill after all. Maybe it was Memphis.
Keeping her off balance, keeping her sick…
He could have easily put medicine in her pill bottles that made her hallucinate. He’d been in her room—hell, he’d slept there, the very first night she’d been at the castle. She’d drunk plenty in his presence: wine, tea, juice. He could have easily spiked any of it.