Where All the Dead Lie Read online

  Praise for the novels of J.T. ELLISON

  “What J.T. Ellison has done with the city in her award-winning Taylor Jackson books is magnificent… Lovers of mystery and suspense fiction could not ask for more.”

  —Bookreporter

  “Outstanding… The police procedural details never get in the way of the potent characterization and clever plotting, and Ellison systematically cranks up the intensity all the way to the riveting ending.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review, on The Immortals

  “Darkly compelling and thoroughly chilling, with rich characterization and a well-layered plot, All the Pretty Girls is everything a great crime thriller should be.”

  —Allison Brennan

  “Fans of intelligently written, intricately crafted thrillers should definitely check out J.T. Ellison’s latest Taylor Jackson novel, 14. Fusing gritty cop drama with dark psychological thriller, Ellison distinguishes herself with exceptional character development, consistently breakneck pacing and a sense of authenticity throughout.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Mystery fiction has a new name to watch.”

  —John Connolly

  “Carefully orchestrated plot twists and engrossing characters… Flawed yet identifiable characters and genuinely terrifying villains populate this impressive and arresting thriller.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Judas Kiss

  “A tense thrill ride filled with secrets, raw emotion and death, newcomers will love it as much as her longtime fans. After completing this one, you will scream for the next book.”

  —RT Book Reviews, Top Pick, on So Close the Hand of Death

  “Fast-paced and creepily believable, Ellison’s novel proves that there is still room in the genre for new authors and new cops. There’s no novice showing in All the Pretty Girls. It’s all gritty, grisly and a great read.”

  —M. J. Rose

  “A twisty, creepy and wonderful book…. Ellison is relentless and grabs the reader from the first page and refuses to let go until the soul tearing climax.”

  —Crimespree on 14

  “So Close the Hand of Death is a terrific piece of fiction from the shocking first page to the exquisite, staggering end. The talented J.T. Ellison designs a complex plot with multifarious characters who will chill you and make you glad you are reading fiction safely in a cozy spot.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “All the Pretty Girls is a spellbinding suspense novel and Tennessee has a new dark poet. A turbo-charged thrill ride of a debut.”

  —Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “Ellison combines a solid and frightening plot with pitch-perfect pacing and terrific primary and secondary characters—including a really sketchy set of murderers—to make The Immortals her best effort to date. Don’t miss this one, or the series, if you haven’t sampled it yet.”

  —Bookreporter

  “The book is taut, tense and suspenseful. The best part of All the Pretty Girls, though, is its breathless pace.”

  —The Tennessean

  “Flawlessly plotted, with well-defined characters and conflict, Ellison’s latest is quite simply a gem.”

  —RT Book Reviews, Top Pick, on The Cold Room

  “What Jeff Lindsay’s Darkly Dreaming Dexter does for Miami, Ellison’s Jackson novels do for Music City.”

  —Nashville Scene

  “Ingenious and first rate… You absolutely must put So Close the Hand of Death on your reading list.”

  —Bookreporter

  “Gritty and realistic and filled with intense action.”

  —Midwest Book Review on The Cold Room

  “The multiple subplots don’t stop Ellison from weaving a tight and powerful story. Judas Kiss moves at a rapid-fire rate, its four hundred pages rushing like adrenaline through the bloodstream.”

  —The Strand Magazine

  Also by J.T. Ellison

  SO CLOSE THE HAND OF DEATH

  THE IMMORTALS

  THE COLD ROOM

  JUDAS KISS

  14

  ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS

  WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE

  J.T. ELLISON

  This one’s for Laura Benedict, who saved it for me at the eleventh hour, and my Randy, who made it come alive.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  BEGINNINGS

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MIDDLES

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ENDS

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  Scotland

  The Highlands

  Dulsie Castle

  December 22

  Dear Sam,

  There is a moment in every life that defines, shapes, transcends your previous spirit, molding you as if from newborn clay. It’s come for me. I have changed, and that change is irreversible.

  Sam, there’s no doubt anymore. I’m losing my mind. The shooting is haunting me. The horror of your loss, of who I’ve become, all of it is too much. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand to go on like this, trapped under glass, trapped away from everyone. I’m lost.

  The walls here speak. Disconcerting at times, but at others, it’s a comfort. The ceilings dance in the candlelight, and the floors shimmer and ripple with my every step. I escape out of doors, and when I do, all I find is fog, and mist, and lumbering sheep. Cows with gentle, inquisitive eyes. The dogs have a sense of humor. But you can tell they’d turn on you in a second. I’ve known people like that. The deer are patient, and sad, resigned to their captive lives. The crows are aggressive. The seagulls act foolish, and there’s something so wrong about seeing a soaring gull against the mountainous backdrop. The chickens are huge and fretful, the grouse are in a hurry. The mist settles like a cold shawl across the mountain’s shoulders, and the road I walk grows close, like it’s planning to share a secret.

  Above all, there is no one. And everyone. I feel them all around me. All the missing and the gone. I can’t see them, except for late at night, when I’m supposed to be asleep. Then they push in on
me from all sides, stealing my breath. The room grows cold and the warnings begin.

  It strikes me that I’m surrounded by doctors, yet no one can help. I have to find the strength from within to heal. Isn’t that what they always say, Physician, heal thyself? I shall amend it: Lieutenant, command thyself.

  Sam, please, forgive me. It’s all my fault. I know that now.

  In moments of true peace: outside by the statue of Athena, looking over the gardens, watching the animals on the grounds, I feel your sorrow. I finally understand what you’ve lost. I’ve lost it, too. I don’t think there’s any coming back. I don’t think there’s any room for me in our world anymore.

  There’s something wrong with this place. Memphis’s ancestors are haunting me. They don’t like me here.

  I did the best I could. I messed everything up, and I don’t know if I can fix it.

  Hug the twins. Their Fairy Godmother loves them. And I love you. I’m all done.

  Taylor

  Taylor slammed the laptop shut. Nauseous again. Pain built behind her eyes. A demon’s hammering. Her only recourse was to lie down, lids screwed shut, praying for the hurt to pass. Percocet. Another. The pills they provided had stopped working. Nightfall signaled her brain to collapse in on itself, to allow the doubt and pain to rule. Weakness. Mornings brought safety, and courage.

  Her mind was made of hinges, pieces that held imaginings she didn’t want to acknowledge. If she did, the demons overtook her thoughts.

  Defying the headache, she stumbled to the window, stared out at the mountains. Darkness enveloped their gentle curves. Bitter snow reflected the outline of the massive Douglas firs. Completely desolate. Private. Perfect for her to hide away, in the wilds of Scotland, pretending to the world that she was fine, just visiting for a time, on holiday, as the Brits around her liked to say.

  She’d run away from the people who knew the truth about her situation—Dr. Sam Loughley, her best friend, and Dr. John Baldwin, her fiancé. She’d even managed to push away Memphis Highsmythe, a friend who wanted more from her than she was willing to give.

  She brushed her hair off her shoulders and leaned against the window. The cool glass felt good on her temple. The small, puckered scar, another battle wound, nearly healed. Even the pinkish discoloration was beginning to fade. She no longer bore the blatant stigma of the killer known as the Pretender, at least on the outside. He’d stolen something from within her though. Something precious she didn’t know how to retrieve.

  Now she was only half a woman, half herself. A crazy little girl shut up in a castle, too tired to play princess anymore.

  Movement over the mountains. The storm was changing. Gray clouds billowed down into the valley, nestled up against the loch, and opened. Stinging ice beat a merciless tattoo on the ground.

  Her heart beat in time with the sleet, the pounding as insistent as a knock on the door—over and over and over—and the grip of the pain became too much to bear. The migraine overwhelmed her. The heavy Victorian-era furniture in her room was coruscating, beginning its nightly danse macabre.

  Defeated, she pulled the curtains, went to the bathroom. Dumped two of the thick white Percocets in her palm and swallowed them with water from the tap. Hoped that they’d help.

  Back to the bedroom. She saw her laptop was open. She’d been online? She shouldn’t have had so much to drink. She was feeling sick again. The drink, the drugs, the pain, it was all jumbling together.

  The truth.

  Shadows heavy as blankets swathed her body, nipped at her bare feet. She made her way to the bed by rote, lay down on the ornate spread, and gave in to the pain, the fear, the gut-wrenching terror that filled her night after night after night. The only things she could see were the dancing lights that shimmered off her brain, and the pearly outline of the ghost who’d come to tuck her in. She closed her eyes against the intrusion. Perhaps it would leave her alone tonight.

  No.

  It was here.

  She felt its chilly caress slide against her cheek, its slim finger moving across her forehead, stopping at last to trace the bullet’s entry wound. The scar burned cold. She would not move, would not call out in fear. The thing loved her terror, and this, this moment of abomination, when the ghosts of the past and present mingled in the very air she breathed, this was the one moment when her voice came back full and true. She’d made the mistake of screaming the first time it touched her, and would not give it that joy again.

  The chilled path moved lower now, to the long-healed slash across her neck. She wouldn’t be so lucky the next time. The touch was a warning. A sign.

  And then it was gone. She let the throbbing wash over her and wept silent tears.

  BEGINNINGS

  One Week Earlier

  “Like a broken gong be still, be silent. Know the stillness of freedom where there is no more striving.”

  —THE BUDDHA

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nashville, Tennessee

  December

  “Taylor, you’re doing great.”

  Dr. Benedict had the laryngoscope deep down Taylor Jackson’s throat. The anesthetic they’d sprayed before the procedure made her tongue curl; it tasted like bitter metal. Who the hell could be a sword swallower? This was ridiculously intrusive. Though she didn’t hurt, she could tell they had something threaded into her. The thought made her want to gag. The doctor caught the motion and murmured to her, softly, touching her on the shoulder like he was gentling a horse.

  “Shh, it’s okay. Almost done. Just another minute.”

  She was tempted to get him a stopwatch. That was the third time he’d promised he was almost done. She tried to think of something, anything, that would distract her. The panic was starting to rise, the claustrophobic feeling of having her mouth open for too long, the knowledge that there was something…

  “Okay, cough for me, Taylor.”

  Finally.

  The metal slithered out of her mouth. She felt like an alien, regurgitating a particularly indigestible meal.

  At least she could breathe again.

  The examination table was close to the wall. She slumped back for support and watched the doctor set aside his tools. The scope made a thunk against the metal of the tray, discarded, no longer an instrument of healing-by-torture, just an inanimate implement with no intent, no plot.

  He patted her shoulder again. “Why don’t you get dressed and come on into my office. We’ll talk more there.”

  She tried not to notice that he winced when he said talk.

  She wasn’t doing a lot of that these days.

  Taylor dressed, shedding the thin paper gown in a huff. Why she’d needed to get seminude for Dr. Benedict to look down her throat was a mystery to her.

  John Baldwin, her fiancé, stood quietly in the doorway, waiting for her. Reading her mind, he smiled. “Because if you’d had a bad reaction to the anesthetic, or had a problem, he wouldn’t be able to take the time to get you undressed to stabilize you.”

  She nodded. That made sense. She knew the logic behind it, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

  She watched Baldwin watching her, his green eyes full of concern, his black hair standing on end, the salt at his temples smoothed back. He was tall, six foot four, and broad-shouldered. She’d always thought him beautiful; it wasn’t an appropriate adjective for a man, but he was. Well proportioned, a full, teasing mouth, high cheekbones and a sharp jaw. He was her everything.

  Was. Had been. She didn’t know why she was thinking in past tense—he was still here, she was still here. Together. They were touching, holding hands even. But physical proximity means nothing when your world’s been turned upside down.

  She was afraid of more than just her visible injuries. She was scared that the invisible ones, especially the brittle crack in her heart, would be what did her in. He’d lied to her about his past. She asked for one thing, loyalty, and he had failed her.

  “Let me help you,” Baldwin said, and squeezed her hand
as they started down the hall. She let him. It had been nearly a month since the shooting, and she was still wobbly. Head shots did that to you. A mantra that had been forced on her for weeks.

  She ignored the fact that he was looking at her with that confused gaze, the one that said please, please, let me back in. As if he’d known what she was thinking. He did that sometimes, stole her thoughts right out of her head.

  Oh, Baldwin. What have you done to us?

  Dr. Benedict had left the door open. Baldwin held it for Taylor as she entered the room, then followed behind her. There was a lot of dark wood, a huge desk, a few framed photos and degrees. She sat in one of the two chairs facing the desk and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

  Dr. Benedict cleared his throat. “Okay. Good news first. I’m not seeing anything that indicates a permanent condition. The dysphonia responded to the botulinum injections—though your vocal cords are still bowed a bit, they are starting to adduct in the midline and when you cough. There are no signs of polyps or tumors. This is good news, Taylor. Your vocal cords are intact and working. When you were shot, when you fell, you hit your throat on something. That blunt force trauma is what caused the dysphonia. This isn’t a result of the bullet track, or the surgery. You were damn lucky. Your voice should come back.”

  She shook her head and pointed at her throat.

  “Taylor, I don’t know. All I can say with certainty is that the problem is no longer a purely physical one. The bullet didn’t penetrate into the vocal area of the brain, otherwise you’d really have some issues. There’s nothing out of the ordinary in your neurological profile, and the wound has healed nicely. Your balance is remarkably good, considering. You’re eating all right, sleeping all right, for you at least. The headaches aren’t getting any better?”