Delores seemed taller in her chair and Taylor wondered if she was sitting on a phone book. She’d been talking for the past five minutes, but after she said they were discounting the allegations of witness intimidation, Taylor had tuned her out. There was nothing she could do to her now—Taylor had been cleared of the charge of murder publicly, privately and everywhere in between—but she was still droning on about professional responsibility and taking precautions in life, blah, blah, blah.

Taylor didn’t start listening in earnest until she heard the word shield, then focused on the Oompa’s ridiculously tiny hand. She took the gold with grace, but didn’t feel complete until Norris had returned her Glock as well. Not that she’d been cruising around unarmed, but having that particular gun on her hip meant something to her.

She turned to go, but the Oompa cleared her throat viciously. Taylor looked down at her expectant face.

“Yes?”

“Don’t you want to say something?”

Taylor was thrust back in time. Her mother had said that to her when she was a child, the tone readily recognized as a mild scold when she hadn’t said thank you to a stranger showing a kindness. She would be damned first.

Taylor stared Norris down for a moment. Carelessly, she replied, “No,” and walked out of the office. Baldwin was waiting in the hall, his face a question Judas Kiss

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mark. She just tapped her waist, where she’d already secured her weapon and her shield. She didn’t speak, just kept walking down to the stairwell. Once they were inside, Taylor started to laugh.

“Dear God, that woman’s patronizing looks just get me every time. She really thinks she’s the bee’s knee.”

“You should still be careful around her. She’s got a stinger.”

“Well, she can take that stinger and shove it up her ass. I know she’s got it in for me, but I can’t change who I am or how I work just to stay on her good side. I’ve dealt with women like her before. They are so allfired busy trying to prove themselves that they lose the respect of everyone around them. She’ll screw up. I’m just going to stay out of her way from now on.”

They had settled in to work, comfortable and secure, when the call came.

Taylor was in her office, the door open, getting briefed by Marcus on what he and Lincoln had uncovered about the Wolffs thus far. The films, the money, the double life. When she looked past Marcus, she could see Lincoln’s leg jumping with nervous energy. He had Corinne Wolff’s computer on his desk, Todd Wolff’s laptop on the desk next to him. He was flying through the files, nodding, saying yes, yes aloud every couple of moments.

Fitz had been called out on a murder, but promised to get back as soon as possible to help. Marcus had just started going over the gas receipts that Wolff had been so shocked to hear they could easily trace when her outside line rang. Taylor answered the phone, was surprised to hear Fitz calling. He’d only been gone twenty 332

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minutes, couldn’t have had time to do much at the crime scene.

“Hey, what’s up?”

His voice was as grave as she’d ever heard it. “I need you.”

She didn’t question why, just asked where he was.

“The Parthenon. Bring Baldwin. I’ve got something you both have to see. Someone’s sending you a message.”

Thirty-Four

Taylor and Baldwin were screaming up West End, a flashing, blaring siren latched to the roof of the car above the driver’s side door. Baldwin was driving. It was too loud to talk, which suited Taylor fine. She knew what this was, why Fitz had called her, his normally boisterous voice filled with dread. Aiden. Aiden had killed. Fitz said someone was sending them a message. The moment she’d hung up the phone, Baldwin had looked at her, his eyes full of questions. He knew too.

“Might be a trap,” he said.

She shook her head. A message.

She let the memory of Aiden standing in her front lawn fill her. Scant moments after killing two men with his bare hands, he was so damned nonchalant, so…unfazed by what he’d just done. A sense of failure, of loss for the two men who’d answered her summons for help, died trying to protect her, crept down her spine. She’d been so wrapped up in her own troubles, she’d neglected to even find out their names.

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The urban spread became Vanderbilt University, a sedate greenness signaled they had arrived. Taylor had always relished the dichotomy that was Nashville; there was something so joyous in downtown’s diversity from block to block. Vandy was always a favorite destination. The hopes of the guileless college students, the ornate buildings teeming with knowledge. Before she could get reflective for her own lost years, Baldwin took a fast right into Centennial Park, narrowly missing the ubiquitous jogger panting down the sidewalk. The grounds of the Parthenon were filled with squad cars. Blue lights shimmered in the midday sun. A knot of officers stood at the base of the Parthenon steps, looking highly out of place. During the day, this was a tourist destination as well as a favorite walking mall. People brought their dogs to run in the grass, ate picnics at the base of the gigantic oak trees, stared in wonder at the perfect replica of ancient Greek architecture and tribute.

The chill spread deeper into her body. Aside from the cops, Centennial Park was strangely empty. The sight of the Parthenon usually filled her with nostalgia; it was never a complete school year without a visit to one of the most recognizable landmarks in Nashville. She mentally reviewed the information that had been parceled to her on every field trip: built to impress travelers visiting Nashville for the 1897 Centennial and designed to reflect the city’s reputation as the

“Athens of the South,” the building was originally meant to be a temporary structure. The sophisticated citizens of Nashville left it standing and by 1931 it was rebuilt as a permanent monument. The massive bronze doors guarded the largest indoor sculpture in the Judas Kiss

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Western world: a replica of Phidias’s colossal statue of Athena, goddess of wisdom, warfare and the arts, sculpted by Nashville artisan Alan LeQuire. The Parthenon art museum was respected worldwide; Taylor had visited an exhibit only last month. Now the columns held up a roof covered in friezes that seemed much too prescient. The structure stood lonely and bereft, defiled by unsanctioned death, the site of a modern day sacrifice. Taylor could barely force herself out of the car to meet Fitz, who walked quickly to the car when they pulled up.

He was carrying something.

She stepped from the vehicle and faced Fitz.

“Who?” she asked.

She caught a glimpse of the photo he was carrying. It was a close-up shot of a naked torso, she could just see the outline of a collarbone above…

The temperature hadn’t risen a degree, yet Taylor felt the sweat break out on her brow. She turned her attention to the gathering of police officers twenty feet away. She forced herself to walk slowly, to seem indifferent. Inside she was paralyzed with fear. The body was naked, artfully arranged to lean against the top step, so a passerby paying little heed might not take notice, would think that it was simply a scantily clad person taking a brief rest. Closer inspection showed a shock of brown hair, eyes open yet unseeing, glazed already covered with the slightest tint of white. A silver wire, the ends twisted elaborately, was buried deep in the dead man’s neck. There was a flourish on the end of the wire that made Taylor think of leftovers dressed in tinfoil worked into the shape of a swan from a fancy restaurant her 336

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parents took her to when she was young. She fought back the bile rising in her throat.