needs me on a case.”
There was something in his voice, a note of doubt that she immediately seized on. He wasn’t telling her the whole truth. She reached out and touched his chin, turning his face to hers.
“A case?”
He gave her a halfhearted grin. “An old case. They need some testimony about it. I’m so sorry to have to run out on you.”
“We’ll be fine. Are you leaving in the morning?”
“Now, actually. Garrett sent the plane. I’ll have to review my notes and the hearing starts at 7:00.”
She could feel his distraction, decided not to force it. One thing she’d learned about Baldwin, he would eventually tell her what was going on. Pushing him when he was still working things out wouldn’t get her anywhere. And she had enough on her hands here.
“Do you need a ride? I can get a patrol to take you to the airport.”
He nodded. “That would be great. Thank you.”
He kissed her, letting his hand linger for a moment around the back of her neck. He felt so…sad. It was coming off him in waves. She wished she could help, knew he’d come to her when he was ready for actual consolation.
“Honey, can I help?” she asked softly.
His answering smile was grim. “I wish you could, Taylor. But I have to handle this myself.”
Taylor watched the patrol car drive away, wondering again what in the world could drag Baldwin to Quantico at this hour. She didn’t have time to worry about it; she had too much work to do. The chill was setting in, the air crisp with cold. She shivered, started to go back inside the Vanderwoods’ when her cell rang.
It was Marcus, distraught and short.
“We have another body,” he said. “Female teen, four streets over from Estes, Warfield Lane. Completely off the original path.”
Jesus. She thought they were in the clear. There’d been no new reports for over an hour. The house-to-house canvass had calmed, people were off the streets and barricaded in their homes. The media was frustrated, being kept away from the crime scenes. Too bad. They’d be able to dine out on this news for weeks anyway.
“I’ll be right there,” she said.
Taylor bolted out the front door, ran directly into Sam. She grabbed Sam’s arm for balance, narrowly avoided falling down the front steps.
“Good grief, cookie, who lit your hair on fire?”
“Sorry about that, Sam. I’ve got another. Want to hit it with me?”
“Another? Good God. That makes, what?”
“Eight. Can we go now? Marcus just called and he’s obviously crushed.”
“Yeah. I’ll come back and declare this one afterward. Where’s Baldwin?”
“He got called back to Quantico, some sort of emergency.”
“Like this isn’t one.”
“No kidding.”
They wound their way under the crime-scene tape strung across the road and drove down a few streets to Warfield Lane. This house wasn’t as fancy as those on Estes-just a single-story cottage, but still spacious with a lovely, well-groomed yard. A pumpkin sat on the steps, not yet carved.
Marcus met them at the door, face pale.
“She’s in the back room. And just so you know, that’s not the only part of the pattern that’s broken. She’s not a Hillsboro student, she goes to St. Cecilia’s.”
Taylor took that in. “Hmm. She wasn’t in her bedroom, either?”
“No, a den. Looks like she was doing her homework. She’s on the floor behind the desk. Her mom said she likes to work in the window seat. The dog is lying next to her. He won’t leave her side.”
His voice was thick with sorrow. Taylor empathized. They were all going to be taking turns with the department shrink after this was over. Now they were up to eight. Eight teenagers in a single day. The only way it could get worse was if it had happened at school, with more children witnessing the deaths of their classmates.
A narrow hallway, voices from the kitchen. She caught a glimpse of color-a red blouse, the mother sobbing at the kitchen table-then they were at the entrance to the den. The room was paneled in walnut, small and cozy, with bookshelves lining the walls and a big bay window. Taylor and Sam stepped behind the desk.
A chocolate lab growled at them, the whites of his eyes showing. He dropped his head on his paws and whined, the hackles raised on the back of his neck.
“Down, boy. It’s okay.” She turned to Marcus. “What’s his name?”
“Ranger.”
“Okay, Ranger. It’s okay.” She inched closer. The dog seemed to sense the inevitable. He bared his teeth and snapped at her, then slowly, as if his bones ached, got to his feet. His back legs hitched as he moved. Hip dysplasia, Taylor noted absently. Poor thing was old.
“You’ve done your job, Ranger. She’ll be safe with us.” As Taylor spoke, she gently eased her hand around the dog’s neck and got ahold of his collar. She could feel him shaking. “He’s exhausted. Okay, sweet boy. Time to go.”
The dog sighed, then allowed himself to be led away. Taylor scratched him behind the ears as she handed him off to Marcus, then turned back to the body.
The girl was petite, blond hair in a disheveled ponytail, strands sneaking out and falling in tendrils around her face. Her lips were blue. She was naked from the waist up, her budding breasts smeared with blood, the top button of her jeans undone. The pentacle carved in the long curves on her flat stomach was oozing blood. Her small body started to shake.
“Wait a minute,” Sam said. “Son of a bitch. She’s convulsing.” Taylor saw a small bubble of blood form on the girl’s lip. She stared in dull horror for a moment, then both women leaped to the girl’s side. Taylor pushed her fingers into the girl’s neck, felt a tiny, thready pulsing.
“Get the EMTs! She’s alive.”
The ambulance screamed away into the night, EMTs pumping hard on the girl’s chest, her mother crying, holding her free hand. Taylor stood in the doorway to Brittany Carson’s house. Ranger was cuddled against her legs.
Sam was behind her. She ripped off her gloves, snapped, “It’s been within the last hour. And it’s definitely drugs-her pupils were fixed and pinpoint. Whatever they’ve taken, it’s some kind of narcotic.”
Taylor turned back to her best friend. “Do you think that’s why the dog wouldn’t leave her side? Because he knew she was alive?”
Sam tucked a swoop of bang behind her right ear, then rubbed her hand across her eyes. She suddenly looked older, more harassed. She sighed, then said, “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s probably a moot point. She’s lost a lot of blood, and she was cyanotic. All the other bodies were carved up postmortem. Their hearts weren’t pumping blood. Hers was a steady, slow loss. Depending on what she took…regardless, it’s definitely more recent than the others.”
Taylor watched her sharply. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m just really tired. Can’t seem to catch up on my sleep these days.” Sam stepped away, started loading her gear back into her scene kit.
“Sam?”
“What?”
“You know the last time you looked tired like this?”
“No, when?”
Taylor smiled, crossed her arms. “I don’t know, think back. Maybe…twenty, twenty-one months ago?”
Sam stopped, still and frozen in time. Her eyes met Taylor’s. “No.”
“I think that’s the wrong answer, Mommy.”
Sam sank into a chair, groaning. “No, no, no! I can’t be. Not yet, not now. I refuse. The twins just had their
