into her jacket, suddenly chilled. She was here, she was committed to getting all the way back to herself. So why did she have such a sense of foreboding about the whole venture?
Memphis caught her shiver. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, gently taking her hand. She let him, she was chilled, and the warmth felt good.
She knew exactly what he meant. The shooting. The Pretender. Her fall from grace. Her life falling apart before everyone’s eyes.
Not really. There’s no more to tell. It’s over. I just need to let it go. I’m trying, so hard, to let it go. Why don’t you tell me about your case instead? I’ll live vicariously through you.
He stared into her eyes for a few moments, as if trying to ascertain if she was trying to get him to push harder, or if she really wanted him to back away and distract her. Apparently deciding on the latter, he filled her in.
“All right, then. At best, we have a trio of girls who’ve run away, joined a cult or some such nonsense. At worst, we’ll start finding bodies. The pattern is quite evident, and the victimology is coming together nicely. They all attended different schools, didn’t work together, but all three had gone to a ‘church’ over on the East End. For one it was in her neighborhood, for the others, a tube ride. Out of their way.
“They call it a church, but they don’t ascribe to any God I’ve ever heard of. It’s run by a very charismatic young man who is known as Urq. His father is quite rich. I think he’s probably a schizophrenic, but seems to be much beloved amongst his flock.
“It’s probably a serial, but if that were the case, I’d expect to see bodies by now. I just don’t have a handle on it yet. Give me a stabbing in a Mayfair pub any day.”
You should talk to Baldwin. He might have an idea of how to approach it. He’s good at that sort of thing.
The moment she turned the screen around and saw Memphis’s eyebrow rise in response, she realized how it must look. She pulled the computer back and tried again.
I didn’t mean it like that. You and I, we’re the same. We understand crime. We understand how criminals think. But serial killers have a different mind-set, and Baldwin knows them. Their motivations aren’t the same. I keep telling him he needs to write a book, something that investigators like us can use as a handbook of sorts.
Memphis drummed his fingers on the table. “I might just do that. Speak with him, that is. I’m not above asking for help when lives are at stake. Because something isn’t right with this case. I just can’t put my finger— Oh, look.”
Memphis directed her gaze to the window, and the North Sea appeared, rough and choppy even in the relatively calm weather. Taylor could swear she smelled the salt in the air.
“We’re getting close now,” he said.
And then suddenly they were in Edinburgh, the Waverly station welcoming in its homely concreteness. They disembarked, her legs wobbly on the pavement, the wine adding to her discomfiture, like she was trying to balance atop a very angry rocking chair.
Memphis took her arm and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, holding her upright. She was suddenly exhausted. It was just morning in Nashville, but the time difference, the overnight flight, the wine, the stress of being with Memphis, waiting for the next volley of flirtations, all of it was catching up to her.
Memphis used one hand to wrangle Taylor’s bag and the other to steer her around to the stairs. They were met at the bottom by a homely man, mid-thirties, hair longer than his collar and swept back with some sort of gel. He stood in front of a battered Range Rover. Memphis introduced him as Jacques, who promptly showered Taylor in a transformative smile showing hugely white Chiclet teeth that had to be dentures, and spoke a few flowery sentences in rapid French that she translated to “Welcome, I’m your driver, if there’s
Memphis caught her shiver. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, gently taking her hand. She let him, she was chilled, and the warmth felt good.
She knew exactly what he meant. The shooting. The Pretender. Her fall from grace. Her life falling apart before everyone’s eyes.
Not really. There’s no more to tell. It’s over. I just need to let it go. I’m trying, so hard, to let it go. Why don’t you tell me about your case instead? I’ll live vicariously through you.
He stared into her eyes for a few moments, as if trying to ascertain if she was trying to get him to push harder, or if she really wanted him to back away and distract her. Apparently deciding on the latter, he filled her in.
“All right, then. At best, we have a trio of girls who’ve run away, joined a cult or some such nonsense. At worst, we’ll start finding bodies. The pattern is quite evident, and the victimology is coming together nicely. They all attended different schools, didn’t work together, but all three had gone to a ‘church’ over on the East End. For one it was in her neighborhood, for the others, a tube ride. Out of their way.
“They call it a church, but they don’t ascribe to any God I’ve ever heard of. It’s run by a very charismatic young man who is known as Urq. His father is quite rich. I think he’s probably a schizophrenic, but seems to be much beloved amongst his flock.
“It’s probably a serial, but if that were the case, I’d expect to see bodies by now. I just don’t have a handle on it yet. Give me a stabbing in a Mayfair pub any day.”
You should talk to Baldwin. He might have an idea of how to approach it. He’s good at that sort of thing.
The moment she turned the screen around and saw Memphis’s eyebrow rise in response, she realized how it must look. She pulled the computer back and tried again.
I didn’t mean it like that. You and I, we’re the same. We understand crime. We understand how criminals think. But serial killers have a different mind-set, and Baldwin knows them. Their motivations aren’t the same. I keep telling him he needs to write a book, something that investigators like us can use as a handbook of sorts.
Memphis drummed his fingers on the table. “I might just do that. Speak with him, that is. I’m not above asking for help when lives are at stake. Because something isn’t right with this case. I just can’t put my finger— Oh, look.”
Memphis directed her gaze to the window, and the North Sea appeared, rough and choppy even in the relatively calm weather. Taylor could swear she smelled the salt in the air.
“We’re getting close now,” he said.
And then suddenly they were in Edinburgh, the Waverly station welcoming in its homely concreteness. They disembarked, her legs wobbly on the pavement, the wine adding to her discomfiture, like she was trying to balance atop a very angry rocking chair.
Memphis took her arm and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, holding her upright. She was suddenly exhausted. It was just morning in Nashville, but the time difference, the overnight flight, the wine, the stress of being with Memphis, waiting for the next volley of flirtations, all of it was catching up to her.
Memphis used one hand to wrangle Taylor’s bag and the other to steer her around to the stairs. They were met at the bottom by a homely man, mid-thirties, hair longer than his collar and swept back with some sort of gel. He stood in front of a battered Range Rover. Memphis introduced him as Jacques, who promptly showered Taylor in a transformative smile showing hugely white Chiclet teeth that had to be dentures, and spoke a few flowery sentences in rapid French that she translated to “Welcome, I’m your driver, if there’s
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