His phone rang, Charlaine Schultz’s name popped up on the screen.

“Charlaine, what’s up?”

“I just sent you the most recent picture of Ewan Copeland. The plastic surgeon said he’d done at least five facial procedures on him in the past ten years.”

“We know who he’s supposed to be, let me just confirm with your picture. Hold a sec.”

He pulled up the attachment, recognized the face easily as the death investigator Barclay Iles.

“That’s him. Good job, Charlaine. We know where he is now, I’ll let you know how things shake out.”

“Be safe, boss.”

“I will. Thanks.”

They were screaming down West End. Thank goodness they were going against traffic, people were still flowing into downtown, the morning rush hour compounded by the untimed stoplights and joggers, mostly Vanderbilt students getting a run in before classes started for the day. They were at the tail end of rush hour, though, and heading out of town, so they were able to make good time. They passed Centennial Park and the roads cleared. Baldwin ran the red light at West End and Murphy Road. Time. He looked at the dashboard clock, it had been two minutes since he’d hung up with Taylor.

He shared Charlaine’s information with Marcus. “It’s confirmation, at the very least.”

Marcus shook his head, face tight. “I can’t believe we’ve been working with this guy the whole time. What a devious prick.”

“No kidding. Go faster.”

It would take another five minutes to get to Belle Meade, even speeding through the lights.

He caught himself praying. “Please, God. Don’t take her from me. Let me get there in time.”

Fifty-Seven

Copeland had the common sense to look scared. Their eyes locked for a moment, and Taylor saw the pain and fear in them. It was perfect. Just like she’d been dreaming of.

He was incapacitated enough that she felt comfortable getting Sam out of there. Without looking away, she said, “Are you okay, Sam? Can you walk?”

Sam was crying. “I don’t know. Thank God, Taylor. I didn’t think you’d ever get here.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“I lost the baby.”

The quiet, cracked voice of her best friend nearly tore Taylor in two. Sam was the strong one, the fearless, the good. Taylor had visited this upon her. She’d never forgive herself.

Another death at Copeland’s hands. Taylor had to force herself not to squeeze the trigger. Not yet. She couldn’t let Sam see her do this. She needed to get her from the room.

Sam’s hands were awkwardly handcuffed to the back of the chair. Without looking, Taylor used her key and undid the cuffs with her left hand, a little awkward, still pointing the gun at Copeland’s head. He watched her, wary now. There was no confidence in his gaze.

She helped Sam to her feet. She wobbled, then got her balance. She clutched onto Taylor’s arm so hard that Taylor felt the bruise begin.

She walked her across the room, stepping backward carefully, the gun never wavering.

“It’s going to be okay, honey. I promise. Go out the back stairs. There’s a short tunnel. You can get out there—it goes into the garden. Baldwin should be on his way. The front door is locked, so be sure you show him the back entrance in. Go. Go now.”

“Thank you, Taylor,” Sam said softly. She took the first steps unsteadily, without looking back, her hands cupped around her bloody stomach.

Taylor shut the door behind her. They were alone. She heard the first siren then. Copeland did, too, his mouth turned up in a bloody grin.

“Here comes your boyfriend.”

“Shut the fuck up. You don’t get to talk to me. You get to listen.”

“But don’t you want to know why I chose you?”

She hesitated, and he took the quiet as permission to continue. He spat a large bloody wad toward her boot, and she didn’t move.

“You laughed at me.”

“I’ve never met you before in my life.”

“That’s not true. You pulled me over. Right after I killed Tommy Keck, as a matter of fact. You had everyone out on the highways looking for the shooter, remember? I’d already changed cars, you had no hope of finding me. But you pulled me over and questioned me, like a good girl. I asked you to dinner. And you laughed at me, you bitch.”

“You’ve hurt all these people, killed so many, because I wouldn’t go to dinner with you? You’re insane.”

“Not the dinner, no. It was the way you laughed at me, like I was just a piece of shit you’d gotten caught on your boot. Like I was nothing. Like I didn’t deserve the opportunity to talk to you. I’ve been waiting for this moment for four years. For a chance to tell you that all of this is your fault. That you killed everyone. That you dug the baby from your best friend’s womb, that you stole the sight from your father figure. All these things you’ve done to yourself, Taylor. If you’d shown a little courtesy, been a little nicer, I’d have gone on my way and never come back.”

Voices now, shouts from the driveway. Reinforcements had arrived. She needed to make this quick. She sidestepped to the window, keeping her eye on Copeland. She took a quick glance out, the window overlooked the driveway. She hoped they wouldn’t hear the shots.

Her head was only turned for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough. Copeland attacked her from behind, punching her low in the back. She stifled a scream, whirled around and lashed out with her leg. She felt her boot connect, heard the sickening crunch as his arm broke.

He grunted in pain and collapsed on his side. She kicked him in the ribs again, hard, and heard the breath whoosh out of his chest as more bones gave way.

She felt nothing now but the pure, fine energy of her wrath. It made her strong, omnipotent, yet anchored her cruelly in the moment. She must stop. She must. Her breath came in ragged jags, the veil was lifting from her eyes. It took every ounce of her being to stop her fists, to stop the beating.

Taking back all that energy was a near impossibility at this point. She staggered four feet away, bent over to catch her breath. After a moment she stood up, and pulled the Winchester hollow point round from her jeans pocket. Two strides and she was on top of him again, legs straddling his body, teeth gritted with the effort it took not to smash her boot into his face. He wouldn’t look up, just stared at the ground. He was defeated.

Walk away, Taylor. Walk away. He’s beaten.

It just didn’t feel like enough to her.

She couldn’t help herself—she snarled at him, holding the bullet in her left hand. “You see this, you son of a bitch? This is the one you sent me. I’ve been carrying it with me, just waiting for a chance to put it in your brain. And here’s the moment I’ve been waiting for. The great big bad Pretender, whimpering on a dusty attic floor in the house of the man who made him. You couldn’t even become a killer on your own. You had to use the people around you. You are nothing. And this is the end of your story. Some end, huh?”

Taylor ejected the bullet already in the chamber and dropped the magazine into her hand. Inserted the Winchester. Popped the magazine back in. Pulled the slide and smiled as the bullet slid into the chamber. Troy, Barclay, Ewan—whatever the hell his name was—wouldn’t meet her eyes, just cowered on the cold floor.

The window was closing. They were still alone, just for a moment. There was no one to see. No one would know. He had lunged at her. She had been fighting for her life, the gun between them. It went off in the struggle. She could do it.

Jesus, God, she could pull the trigger and end his life. She wanted it so bad, she could taste it. Death was metallic on her tongue.