Where All The Dead Lie. J.T. Ellison
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He didn’t say anything. She watched his hand grasping the stem of his wineglass, could see the tension in his fingers. She hated hurting him like this, but it was for the best. She needed some space. No one was giving her any space.
He finished off his wine.
“Fine, Taylor. If this is what you want. Go to Scotland. I give you my blessing.”
I wasn’t asking permission, she thought, but refrained from writing it down. No sense in upsetting him more than he already was.
He stared at her for a moment, then stood and threw his wineglass at the sink. It exploded into shards, and he walked out of the room without a second glance.
So it was decided.
She was going to Scotland.
Taylor waited until Baldwin was asleep to send a message to Memphis. It was late in Nashville, past two in the morning, and her head was pounding, but she was wide-awake. She and insomnia were back on speaking terms after a disastrous bout with Ambien left her incoherent. She never responded well to sleeping pills, had the opposite reaction from most people. The Ambien made her frazzled and jumpy all night, then she crashed for ten hours once the sun came up. Turning into a vampire wasn’t really an option, even though the doctors said more sleep would help her throat heal faster. She’d managed for all these years already, so she rebuffed their attempts to drug her, stuck with the pain meds and her pool table.
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