Oh, God.
The baby.
She hadn’t been in time to save them both.
Taylor turned back to Copeland in a rage. He was starting to get up, she stomped on his thigh as hard as she could, gloried when he screamed. A broken femur would slow him down. He reached for his leg, crying out like a wounded animal, fighting not to pass out from the pain. She stepped back, took a deep breath, steadied herself. Pointed the Glock at the son of a bitch’s head. Smiled at him when his eyes got wide.
“Let’s play,” she said.
Fifty-Six
B aldwin drove while Marcus called it in and got them backup. They weren’t taking any chances, but Baldwin knew they were going to be too late. Taylor would do anything to save Sam, including going into the house guns blazing and getting herself killed in the process.
Did she think she would get away with killing Copeland? Was that why she’d been so quiet over the past few days? He should have seen it, should have recognized that she was going to take it upon herself to end the Pretender’s life.
If he’d been less worried about himself and his own stupid problems, he’d have seen her withdraw. He could always read her, and he hadn’t even bothered. This was his fault. It was all his fault.
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
C opeland 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.
