Taylor knew she was staring at him. What a creepy, odd story.

Do you see her?

“Do I see Isabella?” Memphis flexed his hand a few times, balling the strong fingers into a fist, then stared into the fire. He took his arm from around her shoulders. His tone changed, no longer imparting a delicious ghost story, now more subdued.

“Well, I can’t rightly say. May have done a few times, especially when I was a boy. She’s supposed to be much more partial to young boys. Once they pass the age of twenty, which was Oliver’s age when he died, she loses interest. But I’ve definitely seen something that could be her, many times. More of a feeling, really, that chill in the air, the sense that someone’s watching, an awareness of the color red. Almost like having a bout of synesthesia. I’ve gotten used to it now.”

He was holding back, she could tell.

What is it? What’s the matter?

He met her eyes then. “I can’t help but wonder, if Evan had carried to term, whether my son would have seen Isabella.”

Oh, God. Taylor felt terrible, she’d forgotten. It was easy to; Memphis rarely spoke of Evan, and even more rarely mentioned the child she’d been carrying when she died.

“Another dead Highsmythe bride.”

He played with Taylor’s engagement ring. After a second, she instinctively pulled her hand away. It felt profane to have Memphis touching the physical expression of Baldwin’s love. He didn’t seem to notice.

“I never got to see her, you know. After the accident. Father wouldn’t let me. He said it would be a very bad idea indeed. She’d gone through the windscreen, was cut to ribbons. He thought I would carry the image with me forever. Though honestly, I can’t comprehend it could have been any worse than what my imagination conjures up, late at night.”

That she understood.

You’re right. I tell victims’ families the same thing, but I’d want to know. I’d want to see. The mind can play terrible tricks.

“That it can.”

He was lost to her, there in the room physically, but mentally in another world, another time. Grief did that to a person, snuck up on cat’s feet when you were most unawares. He must have realized, because he cleared his throat and looked at her.

“We buried them on the estate, you know. Together, of course. In the graveyard up by the kirk. It broke my heart. I don’t know which was worse, losing her, or never having a chance to see him grow up.”

Oh, Memphis. I’m so sorry. It’s just not fair.

They sat quietly for a few minutes, companionable in their silence. Taylor couldn’t help but think of Sam, and the child she’d lost. Of her face when Taylor found her, bloodied and tied, the sheer agony of what had happened etched in eloquence across her features. She sighed. Baldwin had lost a child as well, though she was having a hard time equating his loss with Sam’s, or Memphis’s. His child was most likely still alive. Regardless, they were all surrounded by too much sadness.

Memphis finally roused himself. “I’m sorry. I’ve gone and properly cocked up our lovely evening.”

She sought to distract him, and herself.

No, it’s fine. Tell me more. Why is Isabella called the Lady in Red?

He met her eyes then. “Oh, that’s simple. She appears drenched in blood.”

They’d stayed in his office a bit longer, on safe topics—her plans for the next day, which included the early-morning visit with Dr. James and a little side trip he’d like to take her on, how the weather was expected to behave, what time she’d like to take breakfast—then drank the rest of the port and called it a night. She wasn’t tired, but she knew she needed to get some sort of rest.

He left her at the door to her room with a chaste kiss on the top of her hand, in classic French style, and departed without a backward glance. After that moment in his office, she’d expected to have to fight him off, to set the ground rules, but the conversation’s turn had put a damper on his mood. It had the same effect on hers.

Upon returning, the rooms seemed slightly changed, which alarmed her for half a second until she realized it must have been one of the maids turning things down for the evening. Straightening up after her like she was an untidy child. No wonder everything in the castle looked so lovely. Unseen hands followed behind the family members, restoring order in their wakes. In defiance, she went and pulled a book at random from the shelves and dropped it on the chair, where it spilled open. There. It looked like someone was staying here now.

A bath sounded heavenly. She started the tub to fill, and took another Percocet. It had worked wonders tonight; the headache had been at a dull simmer in the back of her head for the past few hours. She could continue to keep it at bay if she took the meds now instead of waiting the prescribed six hours. Deciding she felt like reading, she went back in the sitting room to gather the book.

The hardcover she’d so carelessly plucked from the shelves and tossed on the chair was now closed, sitting squarely in the middle of the cushion. Good grief. She went to the door to make sure it was locked. She didn’t like the idea of the maids being able to come in and out as they pleased. Memphis had probably told them to tend to her every need, but this was ridiculous.

But the door was locked. And the interior latch bolt had been thrown as well. Which meant no one could come into the room without her knowledge.

She glanced back at the book, sitting so pristinely front and center on the chair, and a little frisson of fear went down her spine.

Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Taylor. There is no such thing as ghosts.

She scooped up the book from the chair and headed back to the bath, stripping off her clothes as she went, dropping them willy-nilly on the floor. When she got into the tub, she opened the novel, and nearly laughed out loud. She’d chosen Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca from the shelves.

She allowed herself to get lost in the nameless second Mrs. de Winter’s world for thirty minutes, until her eyes started to ache and her heart throbbed in her temples, then climbed from the tub. Her room was as she left it. Despite herself, she sighed in relief.

She got dressed for bed, snuggled under the covers, found the bed was equipped with an electric blanket, turned it on and texted Baldwin.

He wrote back immediately. His presence chased away all the ghosts.

How are you?

Fine. Full as a tick, warm from my bath. Going to sleep, just wanted to touch base. How are you? How’s the case?

Just fine. I might have to be out of touch for a few days. Immersion. So don’t worry if you don’t hear from me.

Ah. She was being punished. She had a feeling this might happen. She clung to the hope that when she saw him next, she’d have her voice back, her head on straight, and could give herself to him again. Either that or she’d be handing back the ring. The thought filled her with sadness.

Don’t react, Taylor. Be nice. Be sweet.

Atlantic is sending you somewhere warm, I hope. Maybe you can get a break.

That would be nice. How’s the voice?

She tried to ignore the fact that he’d just held back from telling her the truth. Again. Why he didn’t feel he could confide in her, she didn’t know. But it set her teeth on edge. She didn’t feel like a fight now, though.

Scattered and unreliable. It’s easier to just write things down.

You have to practice. Keep doing your exercises.

I will.

Okay, sweetheart. You get a good night’s sleep then.

Good luck.

Thanks. I love you. Please, text me when you finish your session with the new doctor. I’d like to hear how it goes.

I thought you were going to be out of touch.

Maybe. But not until tomorrow night. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Sweet dreams.