LITMIR.BIZ

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forgive.

      And Taylor couldn’t talk back right now. Sam could vent her frustrations on the phone, and Taylor would have to listen. She always had been a good listener. Sam’s favorite confidante.

      She closed the door to her office and dialed Taylor’s cell. It rang three times, then Taylor answered, said, “Mmm,” so Sam would know it was her.

      “Want to get a drink?” Sam asked.

      “Mmm-hmm.”

      “You at home?”

      The phone disconnected, then her text dinged.

      So glad you called. I’m downtown at the office. Baldwin’s supposed to pick me up. Why don’t you grab me and we’ll go somewhere?

      Ten minutes, Sam texted back, then stowed the phone in her bag. She was mad at Taylor, sad for Taylor, and sad for herself, but she couldn’t not see her best friend. At least Sam was getting a chance to heal; her wounds were hidden, on the inside. Taylor had to parade around town with her scars, and without her voice.

      They had to find a way to lean on each other. No one else could understand exactly what it had been like in that attic.

      It took her five minutes to get out of the office. She snuck out the morgue doors into the loading bay, walked around the back of the building to her car in the lot up front. She just didn’t feel like facing anyone. It was embarrassing not to have control of her emotions. Even though she wasn’t pregnant anymore, her body was still laden with crazy hormones. She was mortified by her outburst this afternoon. She didn’t like people to see her cry, and she certainly didn’t like to step out of an autopsy because she was on the verge of exploding.

      The snow had begun to fall in earnest. Sam drove downtown carefully, mindful of the slick roads.

      Sam saw Taylor sitting on the steps outside the CJC. Her bottom must be frozen; she only had on jeans and a short leather jacket. Sam snuggled deeper into her red down coat, chilled at the mere thought. But Taylor seemed completely unfazed. Lost in thought, actually.

      She spied Sam’s car and stood up, graceful and tall, started down the stairs like a gazelle. She was in a good mood; Sam could see that from a hundred paces. She even waved and smiled. Sam waved back, felt a grin spread across her face. She’d never been able to stay mad at Taylor. She wanted to fix things between them.

      She heard a car horn’s frustrated beep, then saw a low green Jaguar out of the corner of her eye. It was coming up fast, flying, actually. James Robertson Parkway was a busy street, especially with all the people parking in the garage and making their way across to the courts and the CJC. A group of people were crossing the road, but the Jaguar didn’t slow.

      Sam watched in horror as the car sped through the intersection, ignoring the red light, and clipped the last person trailing across the street. A Hispanic woman, probably forty years old, took the brunt of the impact. She cartwheeled into the road, upended, a scream frozen on her lips. She hadn’t even seen the car that hit her.

      Taylor took off toward the woman. Sam slammed her car into Park and got out. They made it to her at the same time. Blood spilled from her mouth and head. She needed treatment immediately. People were shouting and screaming, rushing around, and Sam flipped open her phone and dialed 911, despite the fact that she was standing outside police headquarters.

      Taylor had her coat off and began CPR, though on closer inspection Sam could tell it was all a moot point. The woman had landed forehead first. Her eyes were already rolled far back in her head. The thick, ripe scent of urine and waste rose as her body gave up its fight.

      Squashed her noggin, as her mom used to say.

      Taylor stopped the chest compressions, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, stood up and looked east, up the street. Sam followed her gaze. The green Jaguar was long gone.

      The scene was swarmed immediately. EMTs came screeching around the corner. The people who had been with the woman crowded around, their wailing cries mingling with the sirens and shouts.

      Taylor stepped back with blood on her hands. Snow dusted the hair around her forehead like a silver halo.

      Sam reached for Taylor’s hands and wiped the blood off with a tissue, then handed her a bottle of antiseptic gel from her purse. Taylor rubbed her palms together vigorously, then grabbed her coat from the asphalt and shrugged back into it, settling the warmth around her in consolation.

      Death surrounded them. Again.

      Taylor’s eyes met hers and Sam could read the thoughts of her best friend clearly.

      That was no accident, the look said.

      CHAPTER NINE

      It took two full hours to get the scene under control. Taylor had remembered the license plate on the Jag, but a quick search revealed that the plates had been stolen off a truck that had been left out on Eastland Avenue overnight. East Nashville—half beautifully gentrified, half crime-ridden and dangerous. Taylor knew who’d win in the end. The stubborn landowners would force the drug dealers and prostitutes and ruffians out and be left with a quiet little oasis with excellent restaurants and cool shops. They were probably sixty percent there already.

      The family of the woman, if that’s who they were, had clammed up. They wouldn’t say why they were coming to the courts, or who the woman was. Their faces were pinched, eyes darting, tawny skin white with fear, and Taylor knew without asking that they were probably all illegal. A search of the afternoon’s court docket revealed nothing that would explain the woman’s presence; no outstanding warrants matched her description, and no one had a Hispanic woman her age on their current case lists. She wasn’t on the rolls for jury duty. She was a mystery, and Taylor felt the stirrings of life at the idea of figuring out the story. But she wasn’t allowed. Without batting an eyelash, Huston gave the case to Marcus.

      Dejected, Taylor let Sam drive her home.

      They didn’t talk on the way. The horror of watching a woman die in front of them was enough to steal Sam’s tongue as well.

      Taylor’s head was pounding. She palmed a Percocet from the bottle in her pocket. Sam usually had a juice box or two lying around in the backseat, but there was nothing today. She dry swallowed the pill, hoping it started to work quickly.

      When they were close to Taylor’s neighborhood, she put a hand out and signaled to the side of the road. As Sam pulled to the curb, Taylor wrote her a note.

      Memphis invited me to Scotland.

      Sam took one glance at it and turned to her in horror. “Surely you’re not thinking of going? That’s insanity!”

      Taylor shook her head.

      I just think a break would be good.

      Sam put the BMW into Park and adopted her most exasperated tone.

      “Taylor Bethany Jackson, you are a first-class fool if you think that running into the arms of the Viscount of what’s its-name will solve anything.”

      Dulsie.

      “Fuck Dulsie. Don’t fuck Memphis. That will ruin your life, I guarantee it.”

      I’m not planning to fuck him. I’m thinking a little time apart would be good. Baldwin and I aren’t exactly getting along.

      “So you run off to Scotland, to the man who’s desperate to make you his own? Girl, are you out of your mind? Are the drugs they’re giving you addling your brains?”

      Sam’s voice was going up an octave with each declaration. Her face was turning red, and Taylor had to fight not to laugh.

      He won’t be there. I’ll be alone at the estate.

      “Ooh, the ‘estate.’ Don’t you mean his castle? He is the son of an earl, isn’t he? They do have a castle, don’t they? You can go play Rapunzel.”

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