And she’d been fodder for the Nashville media yet again. They’d done story after story, broadcast her condition, delved into her past and speculated about her future. She didn’t go a day without at least one interview request. They filled her email box and took up space on her answering machine. What was she supposed to do, go on air and mime what had happened? No thanks.

Taylor? Are you still here?

She wouldn’t be cleared to go back to work for a few weeks anyway. What harm could come of her sneaking away for a bit? If Memphis’s doctor friend would check in with Benedict for her, maybe that would suffice to get him to clear her to go back to work.

But what would that mean to Memphis, if she agreed to come stay on his estate? Memphis was forever pushing, purposefully misinterpreting her intentions. Fending him off wasn’t always as easy as it should be. The constant attention was flattering. Memphis was different than Baldwin. Baldwin loved her, Memphis wanted her. She had no illusions about the difference.

Things with Memphis would be…simpler. Lust was always easier than love.

She realized he was waiting for an answer.

I’m here. Sorry about that. I don’t know, Memphis. I’ve just promised to see the department shrink. Maybe this isn’t the best timing, you know?

Dearest Taylor, you’ll go mad being around the office and not allowed to work. It’s a travesty that they’ve even suggested you suffer this indignity. Why don’t you wait until you can return fully, unencumbered by this little glitch? We can fix you. Heal you. I know it.

She had an idea of 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.