‘incident.’ Besides, I don’t think there’s a person in Nashville who doesn’t know who Quinn and Whitney are.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a long time, and those girls went through a terrible ordeal. And now Whitney’s been killed, and it’s been a big shock from what I hear. Not just a sister, but an identical twin. Apparently Quinn Buckley is taking the news very hard, which is to be expected. I’ve heard twins have some bizarre connection to each other that normal siblings don’t have. Anyway, I’m getting off track. She told the officers that went to inform her of the accident that Whitney had been trying to reach her. ‘Frantically’ was the word she used. I thought you could head over there and see what ‘frantic’ means in Belle Meade.”

“I’m happy to. I haven’t been slumming in a while now. What’s the status of their case, anyway? Did the guy ever get paroled?”

“Nope. He’s still in and will be for quite a while. So I don’t think this has anything to do with their past, just their present. But if you would go over and find out for me, I’d appreciate it.”

“Will do.”

“Where are you with the rapes?”

“Lincoln and Marcus interviewed the victim who thought she knew him. She’s wobbly, I’m not sure if she’s going to be the best source of information. But the boys told me something interesting. She’s saying it was a cop.”

There was silence from the other side of the receiver.

“Do you think that’s the case? Could that be where the leak came from? If it’s one of our own, he could have leaked it himself.”

“That’s damn fine speculating, Cap, but I think it’s 200

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a little too soon to make those kinds of assumptions. I’m still convinced the leak came from outside this building. Lincoln and Marcus are chasing it down, I just sent them to talk to Betsy. We’ll figure it out, I promise.”

They hung up and Taylor finished gathering her things. She went out the back door, pausing at the top of the stairs where cigarette butts stuck like porcupine quills from an orange bucket of sand. She took a deep breath and kept walking, but stopped twenty paces away and dug in her pocket for her Camel Lights. Flicking a cheap, store-bought lighter, she took a drag. She rationalized for the millionth time. As soon as this case is over, I’ll quit for good.

She went to the car, rolled the window down and put the stick in gear. Blowing smoke out the window, she took off down to Broadway, then turned right and headed toward West End.

She hadn’t thought about the Connolly case in a long time. It had happened when she was only thirteen, and at the time, her parents had sheltered her a bit from it, not wanting to scare her. But she’d worked the rumor mill like every other kid in town, and while they may have had the story straight, no one knew all the details. The Connolly girls disappeared one afternoon on their way home from school. They were attending Harpeth Hall, the exclusive all girls’ prep school in Belle Meade. The school was close to their home, and they usually walked or rode their bikes back and forth to school in their little uniforms. So safe was the neighborhood, no one gave it a second thought. Their parents finally called the police that evening when the twins didn’t come home. In the age before Amber Alerts and All the Pretty Girls

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twenty-four-hour-a-day news coverage, the news hadn’t gotten too far. Taylor never really remembered seeing it on television or in the paper, just hearing about it from friends. The girls disappeared, but were found a few days later. They’d escaped from their kidnapper, a strange man named Nathan Chase. According to the official accounts, they were just fine when they got home. The rumor mill, on the other hand, was moving in high gear.

The appearance of the Connolly sisters at Father Ryan, Taylor and Sam’s high-school alma mater, had caused only a minor stir; the genteel students and their well-mannered parents had seen to it that the girls were welcomed with open arms and never bothered by the stories from their past. At least that was the surface impression. In reality, the whispers and stares were done discreetly, the stories told quietly behind closed Junior League doors, the privileged teens murmuring during cheerleader practice and football games. The walls of Belle Meade Country Club oozed the story, wiping themselves quickly if any member of the Connolly family appeared.

But the Connolly girls were readily accepted, invited to all the right parties, dating the best and brightest boys, making excellent marks and never failing to fit in. Or so it appeared. Their scandal, instead of hurting them, made them.

The summer skies were darkening with a typical afternoon storm. Taylor opened the sunroof, catching a breath of cool air that preceded the storm. Crossing Interstate 40, traffic was slow and aimless. Passing 202

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through the quiet streets of West End, she finally came to the intersection of Harding Road and White Bridge Road. The Starbucks date she’d shared with Sam seemed like days ago, not just this morning. She’d managed to put aside all the emotions from her two-day roller-coaster ride during the afternoon, but seeing the Starbucks brought the news, or non-news, back in a flash. Talk about dodging a bullet.

She supposed she’d have to tell Baldwin about the false alarm, share the near miss with him in as lighthearted a manner as she could. God knows she didn’t want anything to screw with their relationship. Things were good. She was content. She loved him, he loved her. End of story. She didn’t want the same things many women craved. A great man, a wonderful bedmate, relative companionship. That was enough for her. Certainly, her plan didn’t have room for two point five kids and a dog. She’d never been married, hadn’t ever come close. Before Baldwin, she’d always taken her physical pleasure where she could, avoiding all emotional entanglements. Discreet, short-lived affairs on her terms. Sex, not love. Funny, she’d never realized how lonely she had been.

She slowed as she came up on the entrance to Belle Meade. The accident had been cleaned up and the road was back open, but there was still glass scattered carelessly in the roadway and the grass of the median. Cars whizzed through the intersection without a care in the world, their drivers oblivious to the four lives that were lost in this very spot. A shiver of apprehension rippled through her, and she put the window up, blaming the feeling on the breeze billowing forth from the gray All the Pretty Girls

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skies. She turned left and began making her way along the sedate and gracious boulevard.

She ignored the side street that led to the home she grew up in.

The drive for Quinn Buckley’s mansion appeared. She turned into the entranceway and came to a black wroughtiron gate with a small box standing at window level to her left. She opened the window and stuck her head out.

“Taylor Jackson to see Mrs. Buckley, please.”

There was no verbal acknowledgment, but after a few moments the massive gate creaked open. As Taylor maneuvered her car through the gates onto a narrow path, a deciduous forest swallowed her, beckoning and forbidding. The drive meandered through the woods for a few hundred feet. As she rounded a curve, the estate sprang into view. Even by Belle Meade standards, the property was massive. The plantation-style house was a white two-story washed-brick colonial with substantial columns forming a protected area that had been made into an elegant front porch. Four stone chimneys danced toward the sky. East and west wings abutted the main residence, and Taylor could see a separate five-car garage with a transom covered in ivy that led into the east wing. The west meandered into the woods, the architect finding natural beauty within his design. Black shutters blinked mournfully and the air seemed heavier as Taylor drove closer, as if the house itself was grieving. She parked in front of a fountain reminiscent of the Italian Renaissance, taking in the care and nurturing that had gone into the landscaping around the front of the house. The place reeked of money. Taylor rang the bell and waited. Walked up and down the steps. Just as she 204