what kind of healing Memphis would like to employ. Would that make things better for her, or worse? And were things so off the rails with Baldwin that she was actually tempted to find solace with another man? Not just another man, but Memphis? She shoved that thought away; she didn’t want to go there. Not now. Not after the morning they’d had.
I’m sure Baldwin wouldn’t take kindly to me jetting off to the UK. I’d have to ask him along.
No, no, no. That’s exactly the point. A getaway, a holiday, means being away from everything and everyone.
Including you?
There was a pause on his end this time.
I wouldn’t presume to lurk on your holiday. I’d see you safely ensconced at the estate, introduce you around, maybe give you a tour of the Highlands, then I’d have to return to London for work. Truly, think about it. Relaxation, and being away from your cares, might be just the ticket.
So she really would be alone. That was tempting. So very tempting.
I’ll think about it. Promise. I have to go though, my appointment with the shrink is soon. Have a nice dinner. Wish the Earl Happy Birthday for me. Enjoy the grouse.
How did you know that’s what I’d be ordering?
Just a guess. See ya, Memphis.
Au revoir, ma chere.
The chat window closed and she was left alone, wondering why she was even entertaining the idea of taking Memphis up on his offer. It was a foolhardy, dangerous thing to do. Baldwin wouldn’t agree to it in a million years. But maybe leaving town would help? Distance could make the heart grow fonder.
Or break it cleanly in two.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dr. Samantha Owens Loughley stood poised over the body of an older man who’d passed away on the porch of his home, taking notes. Slight skin slippage. Facial congestion. Insect activity on legs. She was relatively certain he’d died of natural causes, but an unattended death meant an autopsy.
The rest of the day’s autopsies were lined up on their individual tables, attendants at the ready, waiting for her to stop by and do the external exam before they turned the pristine stainless-and-white autopsy suite into a Technicolor rainbow—the subcutaneous fat gamboge under the skylights, the organs a muddy sinopia, limp inside their dead homes, the blood as vivid and intense as a burning fire. There were four techs but five bodies, so she’d offered to take one of the guests herself to make things go quicker.
She finished her notes, made her rounds.
Everyone was situated now.
“Let’s go,” she said.
She returned to her table. Consulted the case file one last time. Pulled on her mask and picked up her scalpel. She was just about to make the Y-incision when the lab phone rang. It startled her; she’d been very much lost in thought, not seeing the body beneath her blade, not mindfully thinking about the possibilities of the apparent cardiac infarction. She’d been watching the sharp tip of a large knife slide into her sweater, then slowly, inexorably, pierce the skin of her lower abdomen.
Son of a bitch.
“You got that, Doc?” Stuart Charisse was her favorite tech. He was handling the body of an overdose on the other side of the wall.
She tossed the scalpel onto the tray to her right with a clatter. The phone rang again.
“Let it go. If they need me, they’ll page.”
Sam turned away from the autopsy table and took a seat on a stool near the sinks. Though snow was expected in the afternoon, for now the skies were misleadingly sunny, the frosted skylights dropping warm beams onto her shoulders. She breathed in deeply, counted to four, then let her breath out. The phone stopped ringing. Her breath didn’t slow. Shoot.
“I’m stepping out. I’ll be back in a second.”
There were murmurs of assent. Her team understood; she’d had to step out a few times over the past month.
She stripped off her gloves, pushed through the door to the changing area, and sat at the desk in silence, her breath a background noise to the snapping, sawing and clanking behind her.
This had to stop. Her work was her sanity. She’d always had a comfortable level of detachment from her cases. The precision of the human body was fascinating, and she was damn good at her job. She was helping, she knew that. Giving answers. Putting minds at rest. Solving cases. But being lost entirely outside the room while she was cutting wasn’t fair to the bodies she worked on. They deserved better.
But damn, would she ever be able to look at her work the same way again?
When Barclay Iles had finessed his way into her life, she hadn’t even seen him coming. She’d laughed with him, trained him, worked alongside him, shared meals, late nights, even gave her blessing to his union with her receptionist. When that same man dropped the pretenses and alias, kidnapped her, tied her to a chair, revealed himself as the Pretender and divested her core of the small, innocent life within, she thought she might go insane. It was one thing to miscarry, to have your body make the decision for you. But to lose a child by force, before it was even born, that was too much for her to handle.
The moment replayed itself over and over and over. She could swear she felt the child tear away from the wall of her uterus; the ripping sensation found her in her dreams. The knife wound had been nothing compared to the massive cramp that had seized her midsection. She’d simply wanted to roll into a ball and cry, but with her arms handcuffed behind her, she was forced to make do with a slight bending at the waist. She didn’t want him to see her pain, which was a mistake. He liked pain. He liked to inflict it, and loved to see the effects his actions had on her frailty. When she finally admitted to it by crying out, he had stopped.
But the damage was done. Sam was alive. But her child was lost.
My God. If Taylor had just arrived sooner. If she and Baldwin had figured out who Barclay was earlier. If Taylor had only…
If Sam hadn’t trusted him like a fool.
If, if, if.
She wanted to blame Taylor. Wanted to lay the blame at her feet like a dog drops a rolled-up newspaper. Here, you take it. It’s your responsibility. Now I’m going back to my life.
Her rational brain repeated, over and over, that it didn’t work that way. That she was wrong to blame Taylor because a serial killer decided to target her. That it was inevitable that Sam would be caught in the cross fire. That Sam was the one who’d opened their doors to the Pretender instead of helping to catch him.
Sam had sat back and watched her best friend take ever-increasing risks. She should have known better. Taylor had a breaking point, just like all people. She wasn’t a superhero, she was just a woman, who’d been pushed too far.
Sam could have done something. She could have seen the madman for who he was, instead of being charmed by him. She could have looked more closely at her friend, paid attention to the cracks in her ever-present armor.
But Taylor didn’t have to take things into her own hands, either. If she’d just told someone of her hunch—that she suspected the Pretender had returned to his former lair—someone could have gotten to Sam in time. If Taylor had just let her team in, let them know what she was planning, maybe Sam wouldn’t have lost the baby. Maybe Taylor wouldn’t have been shot.
Instead, they’d all sat back and let Taylor run off the reservation. Sam thought she was the only one who knew that Taylor wanted to be the one to annihilate the threat. Baldwin had been distracted, worried about his son, and hadn’t realized what Taylor planned to do. Had he? Surely he hadn’t. He’d never condone murder.
Then again, Sam knew Taylor better than she knew herself. And Sam was the one who was there, locked in that attic, when Taylor had