“Here, why don’t you have a smoke while you’re at it. Get it all out of your system now, girl, because tomorrow things have to change. For now, just…shit.”

The match had burnt down far enough to burn Sam’s finger. She tossed the pack of matches on the bar and stuck her finger in her mouth.

Free ride. That’s exactly what Taylor had been praying Sam would give her. Sam was a doctor, she knew the risks. If she said it was okay, then it was. She lit the cigarette, drew in deeply and blew blue smoke into the air, mindful to direct the noxious stream away from Sam’s delicate state.

Sam spoke more softly this time. “Sweetie, I know you’re so freaked out right now you can’t see straight. Let’s just ride this out. It’s going to be okay.”

Taylor let the tears start to fall.

Twenty

Whitney was driving in a panic. She’d tried Quinn at home, on her cell phone, at the country club for the remainder of the day yesterday and well into this morning. There was no answer at home or on the cell, and the country club staff hadn’t seen her since Monday after she’d finished her morning workout on the tennis courts. Whitney had continued to hit Redial throughout the evening, finally getting desperate when she reached the answering machine at Quinn’s home for the eighth time this morning. She left a message, telling her sister she was on her way over and to wait for her if she came home. If she got the message, she was to call immediately. She left the same message on Quinn’s cell phone, realizing she was starting to sound slightly hysterical. She needed to get a grip on herself. She might be wrong. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that it was just a coincidence. But she needed to tell her sister face-to-face so they could work it out together. They may not have been close, but Whitney did love her, and would do anything to protect Quinn. All the Pretty Girls

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The station had called, too, wanting her to come in and cover some new angle on the serial rapist that was breaking, but even that had to wait. Imagine, she was putting her own career on hold. She’d deal with that later. First, she had to see Quinn. She forced her brand-new BMW X5 through the meandering traffic on Highway 70. This stretch of road, over Nine Mile Hill from Bellevue into the West Meade area, always lagged. All the locals knew that a speed trap waited to catch drivers as they blew over the hill faster than the forty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit allowed. She weaved, and touched her brakes as she came through the yellow flashing lights in front of St. Henry’s, warning her to slow down to fifteen miles an hour so she wouldn’t run over any lingering schoolchildren. She slowed to sixty-five, then punched the gas as she passed through the intersection. She saw a crosswalk monitor shaking a fist in the air in her rearview mirror, but didn’t slow.

The SUV gleamed in the sunlight, briefly blinding other drivers as it flashed past, narrowly missing bumpers and side mirrors. Horns blared, fingers were thrown, but Whitney ignored the danger she was putting herself and the other drivers in. The West Meade split at Highway 70 and Highway 100 was congested as usual, the awkward traffic pattern begging for an accident of mammoth proportions, but she caught all the lights. She found the short stretch of open road where Highway 70 briefly became the Memphis–Bristol Highway that indicated the wealth of the land had just increased tenfold. The sign for the Belle Meade Mansion flashed by in a blur of white and she realized 156

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she’d missed her turn onto Leake Avenue. No matter, she could get to Quinn’s house through the main entrance to Belle Meade. The railroad tracks flashed by on her left and suddenly she was on top of the entrance. She knew she was going too fast as she tried to take the right turn. She braked hard, and the X5 slid into a 90-degree turn onto Belle Meade Boulevard. As the Beemer tried to obey its master and turn on a dime, Whitney lost control. The SUV weaved precariously, flashing across the turning lane right into the two bronze Thoroughbreds that graced the entrance into the Belle Meade enclave.

The life-sized metal horses bucked into the air and crashed onto the street behind her. The impact didn’t stop her SUV, which continued across the median into the oncoming traffic on the Boulevard. Drivers swerved to miss her, but one car stayed its course. Whitney’s BMW plowed into and over the Audi station wagon, crushing the car and its three occupants. In her panic, she’d neglected to fasten her seat belt. Without the restraint to hold her in place, the impact hurled Whitney through the windshield as if she were a missile. Her left foot caught in the wiper blade, and her broken, bloody body splayed on the shiny hood, mingling with the splat of a couple of lovebugs, all three joined forever in death.

Twenty-One

Baldwin had just arrived at the airport, checked his bag at the curb and was heading inside to grab a cup of coffee before his plane returned to Nashville, when his cell phone rang. He looked at the number and smiled. Taylor had tried to call him late last night, or early this morning, seeing as the time code on the message was 3:30 a.m. She hadn’t left a message. He must have slept through the ring. He hated missing her calls, and wondered why she had tried him in the middle of the night. Sometimes it got to the point that they spoke to each other’s voice mail for a whole day, trying to match up.

“Hi, sweetheart. Everything okay?”

Taylor’s voice was a little shaky, but she sounded all right to him. “I’m fine. When are you coming home?”

“I’m at the airport now, my flight leaves in half an hour.”

“Good. I, uh, we, uh—”

Baldwin heard a beep in his ear, glanced at the display and interrupted her. “Hold on a sec, Grimes is 158

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calling my other line.” He hit the flash button. “Hey, Grimes.”

“Baldwin, you haven’t gotten on the plane yet, have you?”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yeah. And the media is broadcasting the story already.”

“Wait a second, would you? I need to get off the other line.” He clicked over. “Taylor, I have to go. Let me call you right back.” He hung up before he heard an answer and switched back to Grimes.

“Where is she?”

“They found her body off Highway 81 right outside of Roanoke, Virginia. The guy who found her called his girlfriend and told her to call the local Fox affiliate before he called the police. Wanted his fifteen minutes of fame. And before you ask, no, he doesn’t look good for the crime. But we need to get up there ASAP. I’ve got a plane chartered here at the private airstrip. Go grab a cab and have them run you to this terminal, okay?”

The stress in Grimes’s voice was palpable. Baldwin started walking toward the exit with purpose, firing questions as he made his way through the throng of people.

“What else do you know?”

“Other than the national news has already picked it up before we’re on the scene? Well, she was strangled, I know that for sure. But the highway patrol officer I talked to down there wasn’t the friendliest cuss in the world. This isn’t going to be like Noble. So that’s the extent of it.”

Baldwin reached the curb and entered a waiting taxi, All the Pretty Girls

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instructing the driver and talking to Grimes at the same time. “Okay, I’m in a cab and should be over there in five minutes. We’ll talk on the plane.”

He clicked off, then punched in the speed-dial number for Taylor. She picked up before the first ring had ended.

“Thanks for hanging up on me.” She sounded pissed and Baldwin grimaced. He hadn’t meant to be rude, and told her that.

“I know you didn’t. What did Grimes want?”

“Marni Fischer’s body has been found in Roanoke. I’m on my way over to the jet so I can catch a ride up there. I don’t think I’ll be home tonight after all, honey. I’m sorry.” He was genuinely distressed, he hated spending too much time away from her.