Saving Grace: A Taylor Sinclair Novel

CHAPTER 1

TAYLOR SINCLAIR SAT in a dark blue Jeep TJ Sport at the side of a winding road deep in the heart of cottage country, studying the iron gates across the road. The forest was so dense here that only a very short portion of the driveway was visible before disappearing around a bend. She couldn’t even see any signs there was a house in there. All she could see beyond the gates were trees. She shifted into first gear and drove about a hundred feet down the road, pulled over to the shoulder and parked, automatically scanning the area from the Jeep before climbing down and disappearing into the forest.

Dressed in an old pair of jeans, hiking boots, and a windbreaker, dark hair pulled severely back from a stunningly beautiful, exotic face in her signature ponytail, she jumped the ditch easily and disappeared into the trees. Every now and then a long ray of sunshine found its way through the canopy above. Reaching a hand out to one, Taylor let the light play over her olive toned hand in silent awe as a slow grin spread across her face. Surely this was a magical place. How many stories had she read about fairies and the like? She’d never believed in them, but, here you could believe. She headed west until she could see the lake and stopped there, flabbergasted at the sheer beauty of the view. She expected the air to be tinged with that dirty, fishy smell that was common near the shores of Lake Ontario, but all she smelled here was clean, fresh air. Taking a deep breath in, she looked out over the lake and took in the landscape on other side. Cottages dotted the shoreline and then just trees, miles and miles of trees. She felt the breeze coming off the lake caressing her face and rustling leaves while birds she could hear, but couldn’t see, filled the air with their chirping, squawking songs. She’d never heard so many birds. It was all so beautifully foreign to her.

She turned south, continuing with her quest. Within minutes she could see the well-manicured lawn and a large deck jutting out over the water. One lone Muskoka chair sat on the deck with a small table hugging its side.

Looking to her left, she got her first view of the back of the house. Beautiful stonework surrounded a multitude of windows. Taylor figured, with a view like that, you’d want that many windows. The house was much larger than she anticipated. The first floor led out to a large deck surrounded by a symphony of perennials just beginning to come alive for the season. There were little pockets of gardens, water features, and massive rocks spread out around the yard. A solitary lounge chair sat on the deck and a couple more Muskoka chairs. On the north end, she admired a sunken hot tub and, above it, a balcony extended off the second floor wall of glass.

Standing in the shadow of the trees, she watched the house for a while and found no signs of activity. Making her way east, she found a spot where she could watch the front of the house. There weren’t as many windows on this side and the main floor was skirted by a covered porch. She could picture an old couple sitting there in rocking chairs with a cool class of lemonade, watching the world go by. A three car garage extended out of the south side of the house. If there were any cars, they were inside the garage. She found no signs of activity here either.

She made her way back to the Jeep, made a U-turn, drove up to the gate, pushed the intercom button and waited.

Yes? the intercom crackled with a female voice.Taylor Sinclair to see Gray Rowan.

Ms. Rowan doesn’t accept visitors without an appointment.

Please, it’s very important that I speak to her.

In regards to?

Ralph Morse. That ought to get her attention, Taylor thought. She prayed the mention of the name alone would intrigue Gray Rowan enough to see her.

One moment, please.

Taylor sat tapping her fingers on her thigh for a lot more than one moment. It was at least fifteen minutes before the gate began to swing open. She pulled up in front of the porch, jumped out of the Jeep, and bounded up the steps. As she reached the top, a dark haired woman pushed the screen door open.

Native decent, Taylor figured. She guessed her at about forty-five years old and a modest five foot four.

Come in, Ms. Sinclair. Being called Ms. Sinclair sounded strange to Taylor’s ears. I’m Maggie. Ms. Rowan will be up in a few minutes. Why don’t you come in and sit in the great room while you wait? Can I get you a cup of coffee or anything? She led Taylor into a room with oak floor boards and a wonderful fireplace with stonework matching the outside of the house. Hanging above the mantle was a huge flat screen TV. It was flanked by windows that stretched floor to ceiling and offered a majestic view from just about any point in the room. She could see why they called it a great room. It was huge and impressive, with massive wood beams spanning the ceiling.

The furniture was comfortably rustic, in earthy colours. In front of the fireplace, a large, well worn square coffee table of unpolished oak preceded a deep leather sofa in rich bronze tones. Matching chairs ran along the sides of the coffee table. The rest of the room seemed bare. It seemed like too much space for one woman. A sliding glass door opened to the deck, admitting a cool breeze off the lake and giving the room a fresh air scent.

Coffee would be great. Thanks.

She sat on the sofa facing the windows and admired the view from the inside this time. She watched the light reflecting off the ripples in the lake, mesmerized as it danced and sparkled across the surface. Maggie Lightfoot came back in and set a tray on the coffee table in front of Taylor. I wasn’t sure how you take it, so there’s cream and sugar there. Ms. Rowan should be up shortly. She disappeared in the same direction she had just come from.

Taylor added sugar and cream to her coffee then turned her attention back to the room. It was less feminine than she’d expected. No clutter, save for a couple of books on the table, and no personal items anywhere. She stood as she heard someone coming up the stairs behind her and watched as Gray Rowan climbed the last few steps into the great room. She’d studied photos of this woman from newspaper articles and had seen her a thousand times in her dreams, but they were images from sixteen years ago. Still, the woman who now stood before her was recognizable, if only by her eyes. Taylor guessed her height at five foot ten. Like Taylor, she was long, lean, and athletic. Taylor kept herself in good shape, but she didn’t think she’d ever seen a female as ripped as Gray Rowan. Nor had she ever seen a woman as naturally beautiful, with delicate features, high cheek bones, and full lips. She wore a cropped tank, work out shorts, and a pair of Nike’s on her feet. A fine layer of sweat gave her golden tan a slight sheen. Her blond hair was severely short at the sides and back with a mess of spiky wisps on top and nearly platinum highlights. Her ears were studded with rows of three diamond studs set in gold.

Sorry, you caught me in the middle of a workout. Gray too recognized Taylor’s eyes. It was why she’d allowed her in. She’d asked Maggie to hold her at the gate until she could finish her workout.

I apologize for the interruption, Ms. Rowan. My name is Taylor Sinclair. She didn’t extend her hand.

What is it I can do for you, Taylor?

I was hoping I could ask you some questions about one of your books. I’m looking for a rapist, a killer, who escaped from the Palmerton Penitentiary two weeks ago – Ralph Morse.

You’re a police officer then?

Could we sit and I’ll explain?

Rowan looked a bit put out, but she moved to one of the chairs and sat on the edge as Taylor sat back down on the sofa.

My sister was one of Morse’s victims. She was abducted from downtown Toronto when she was fourteen, more than sixteen years ago. He held her captive for over a week before he killed her. Taylor studied Rowan as she talked and suddenly had the impression that Rowan recognized her.

How old were you when this happened?

Why she cared, Taylor had no idea. But, she answered Gray’s question. Ten.

I’m not sure what this has to do with me, or one of my books.

If you could just bear with me? A few weeks after my sister’s death – Leila, my sister’s name was Leila Sinclair – another girl was abducted, Grace Reilly. He had Grace for three days before she was able to escape. Taylor expected a flinch, a flash of horror, something, but Rowan’s face remained perfectly controlled, detached even.

This does sound vaguely similar to the plot of one of my books, but my books are fiction. Any similarities to your sister’s case are purely coincidence.

Taylor continued, "I’ve studied this case since I was a kid. I began looking for Grace Reilly when I turned eighteen. She’s been my hero almost as long as I can remember. She worked in a bookstore in Toronto after she graduated from high school, then two years later she disappeared. Just vanished.

"Then, last year, someone told me about a book, one of your books, Ms. Rowan ... Raging River. She described the plot to me realizing how close it was to Leila’s story. I stayed up all night reading that book. That’s when I knew. Gray Rowan is Grace Reilly, the girl who escaped from that monster and put him in a cage."

There was a hint of emotion beginning to show now, but Rowan kept her composure. "I assure you, Taylor, Raging River is a work of fiction. As I said, any similarities are a coincidence."

These aren’t similarities we are talking about Ms. Rowan. They’re facts. Some of them are facts only the police – or Grace Reilly – could have known.

It’s quite possible Grace Reilly was the inspiration for the novel. And it is quite possible that Ms. Reilly doesn’t want to be found.

"I wouldn’t have bothered you with this, but for one thing. I knew your identity after reading Raging River. I didn’t bother you then, because I figured you had good reason not to want to be found. But, Ralph Morse is out there somewhere. I know him. I’ve studied him. You know him even better than I do. He’s coming for the only one who got away. He’s coming for the one who put him away. Help me find him."

I’m sorry, Taylor. I’m really not who you think I am.

I’ve studied the media photos, over and over again. I’ve looked into Grace Reilly’s eyes for hours on end ... they’re your eyes.

Taylor gasped when she got another strong sense that Rowan recognized her, or her eyes, then quickly put the thought out of her head. Listen, I’m just about out of funds and will have to go back to Toronto in a couple of days if I can’t find some sort of lead. I need to find this bastard ... before he gets to you. Please, he’s out there, waiting for you.

And what is it exactly that you’re going to do if you find him?

I’ll get the police. Show them where he is.

Why don’t you leave it up to the police?

They’re not looking in the right place. I’ve tried to tell them, but they keep telling me there’s no evidence to show he’s here. He is here, Ms. Rowan. He’s around here somewhere, watching and waiting. I know it.

And if you did find him, what do you think he would do if he got a hold of you? You’re well aware of what happened to all those women and girls, Taylor. Is that what you want to happen to you?

I can take care of myself.

Rowan stood, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.

Taylor sighed, stood, and then traced Rowan’s long strides to the front door. Rowan held the door open. As Taylor was crossing the threshold, she whispered, I’m sorry, Taylor. I’m sorry for Leila.

Taylor stopped, just outside the door, and listened as the dead bolt clicked into place. Head hung low, she walked to the Jeep, her usually long stride short and slow.

Gray Rowan rested her head against the door she’d just closed and wept.

CHAPTER 2

TAYLOR SAT ON the edge of a bench in the lobby of the tiny Balton Detachment of the Ontario Provincial Police, her legs bouncing on the balls of her feet. She hated Police Stations with a passion, hated the intrusive questions they asked little girls for hours on end, hated that they wouldn’t accept that she wouldn’t, couldn’t answer those questions.

Taylor Sinclair?

She jumped up and walked to the counter where a tall, dark, and handsome cop stood watching her approach. She saw the way his big brown eyes gawked at her, but chose to ignore it, this time. She stood in front of him at the counter waiting for him to address her, but he continued to gawk.

I’m Taylor Sinclair.

Uh ... sorry, Sergeant Patrick Callaghan. How can I help you? He shook his head slightly, as if to shake himself out of his trance.

Is there somewhere we can talk Sergeant Callaghan?

Sure, come around the counter and we’ll go to my office.

His office consisted of two lone desks facing each other in a small room. Sergeant Callaghan sat at the far desk, listening intently, as she recounted the whole story.

I’ve been following the reports on Morse’s escape. There’s no evidence that he is in this area. The vehicle stolen from Palmerton the night he escaped was recovered in Toronto.

There are no reports on his whereabouts. That vehicle was recovered nearly two weeks ago and no one has seen him since. I know this case, Sergeant. I know Ralph Morse. He’s in this area and he’s here for Grace Reilly.

Where are you getting your information on this case?

Leila Sinclair was my sister. She was the only person I had in this world. I’ve made a point of knowing all about it.

I think you need to go back to Toronto. Leave the hunt and apprehension of Ralph Morse to the professionals assigned to that task.

You don’t understand. I can’t let it go. I know he’s out there waiting for his opportunity to grab Grace Reilly. I know it and you seriously expect me to sit and wait until it’s too late before we do anything?

We? Even if he was here, it’s not likely he’d get the opportunity to grab the reclusive Gray Rowan. She’s lived in that house for about eight years and I’ve never seen her come out of it. The only person in these parts that even knows what she looks like is Maggie Lightfoot, and she doesn’t spill a bean.

What’s to stop him from breaking into the house?

A state of the art security system, from what I hear. The woman wants to be left alone, which is probably why she denied being Grace Reilly. My advice is to do just that. Leave her alone, and go home.

She stood up, massaging her temples and paced back and forth in the small room.

Callaghan watched her pace with an admiring eye then let out a frustrated sigh. Look, let me do some research, look into this a little deeper and I’ll see what I can do.

That stopped Taylor dead in her tracks and she looked into his eyes. Thank you. Really, thank you.

Don’t thank me yet. I can’t promise anything. Why don’t you stop by here tomorrow morning and we’ll go from there?

As she walked out he said to himself, Trouble. Definitely trouble, that one. Then he got up to go and see what trouble Sinclair got into.

Taylor spent the next hour walking around the small town of Balton with Ralph Morse’s picture, hoping against all hope that someone would recognize him. She bought a map of the area from the local gas station and sat in the Jeep scouring over it. After studying it at length, she leaned her head back on the head rest and closed her eyes. Where are you? Where would you go to ground? You’d want a place that’s hard to get to, wouldn’t you? A place you could easily watch her day or night, unobserved, a place with no chance of being seen. Across the lake? A good set of binoculars and you’d be set. You’d probably want a boat or access to one. Yes, you could easily skip across the lake, grab her with no one the wiser. She studied the map for a while longer, fingers tapping on her thigh, then started up the Jeep and drove out of town.

She got back at dusk, frustrated. She was out of her element here, didn’t know the area and she wasn’t used to that. She’d spent her entire life in Toronto and knew the streets like the back of her hand. Wandering through these dense forests was completely foreign to her. She’d checked out various views of Rowan’s house from across the lake, marked areas on the map where she wanted to search on foot, but the area was so vast and it all looked the same. She realized she needed help. She needed someone who knew the area intimately – she needed Callaghan.

She grabbed a chef’s salad at the diner then used the washroom at the gas station before climbing into the passenger side of the Jeep, reclining the seat and drifting off to sleep.

Taylor was back at the front desk of the Balton O.P.P. Detachment bright and early. She stood at the desk, asked for Sergeant Callaghan and waited as the young officer behind the desk stood there in a daze, gawking up at her. He was almost drooling for God’s sake. What the hell’s wrong with you small town boys? Haven’t you seen a woman before?

None that look like you.

Excuse me? she sneered.

Huh? Oh, sorry. Sorry ma’am. His cheeks and his ears flushed bright red. Callaghan’s not in yet.

Any chance I could get a cup of coffee while I wait?

Sure, just help yourself. Pot’s over there. He jerked his head to indicate the little coffee station set up over his shoulder. A lazy smile on his face, he kept his eyes on her the entire time. She felt his eyes as well of the eyes of several other cops roving over her and it sent a shiver down her spine.

A sense of relief flowed through her when she saw Callaghan walk into view. Sergeant Callaghan, she called out, setting the coffee cup aside.

Come on back, Sinclair.

In his office, she listened to him explain that he hadn’t been able to come up with anything solid and there was really nothing he could do at this point.

Please, Callaghan. I need your help. You know this area and I don’t. I need help to search for him.

You have no business walking around out there on your own. Drop it. Go back to Toronto, kid.

Can’t you at least give me some pointers? Are there any abandoned cabins, shacks, cottages – anything like that – on the other side of the lake from Rowan’s?

Sorry, go home. Callaghan leaned back in his chair as his eyes roamed her body.

She caught the way he was studying her, felt the wrenching in her stomach and snapped back, Did you just ask me to come back here this morning so you could all check me out again?

I’m not sure what you’re talking about. He said it with a straight face, but immediately after a smug grin appeared and his eyes continued to wander.

Small town arrogant prick. Is that what you want, to check me out some more? One yank had her wind breaker wide open and she started on the top button of her shirt.

He was out of his chair, with his fist tight around her wrist, yelling ‘stop’ before she could get it undone.

Taylor flinched at his touch and pulled, almost violently, away from him, stormed out and was half way across the street before he grabbed her arm. You need to take your hand off me before you find yourself nursing your seriously swollen junk.

Callaghan winced at the thought. I’m telling you, don’t mess around here. You don’t know what kind of danger you’re getting yourself into. Go back to Toronto. Now. Glaring into her emerald green eyes, he saw the eyes of a ten year old girl blazing back at him from the police file he’d combed through the night before.

Let go. She was starting to shake, couldn’t stand his hand on her.

He dropped her arm, but followed her closely. She jumped into the Jeep and he grabbed the door. Where are you going?

Ignoring him, she quickly turned over the Jeep’s engine and pulled away from the curb, forcing him to let go of the door.

Trouble alright, trouble with a capital T. He made a bee-line for his vehicle. Once he realized where she was going, he passed her and pulled up to the gate at Gray Rowan’s just ahead of her.

Maggie, it’s Patrick. I need to see Gray Rowan.

Just a minute, Patrick, Maggie's voice squawked through the box. Minutes later, the gate swung open and they both sped down the driveway and pulled up in front of the house. Callaghan was out of his car first and stormed over to the Jeep door, flung it open, and pulled Taylor out.

Get your hands off me. I haven’t done anything. You’ve got no right to –

Shut up. Stand here, he pushed her into the side of the Jeep, behind the driver’s door, ... or you’re going to be cuffed and sitting in the back of my car.

She stood there for a moment, stunned, and then watched him lean into the Jeep and start searching through her things. She grabbed his sleeve, trying to pull him out. You can’t do that. You haven’t got a warrant. Get the hell out of –

He moved so fast she wasn’t sure what happened. She found herself face first in the side of the Jeep with him pressing on her back. His hands circled her wrists behind her back and he clasped cuffs onto them.

No. Get those things off me. Get your hands off me. You can’t do this. I haven’t done a damn thing. She was thrashing, desperate to get away from him, frantic to free her hands. She considered stomping his instep and running, but he was a cop. She held back and momentarily tried to concentrate on not freaking out at being in restraints. You don’t understand. You have to take the cuffs off. Now.

I have reasonable cause to believe that you have a computer in your vehicle that you’ve been using to hack into police case files. Either that or you’ve got a copy of those files. At this point, you’re being detained for your own safety and you’re damn lucky I’m not arresting you for assaulting an officer.

This is crap and you know it. Let me go. The feeling of having her hands restrained was becoming unbearable. She felt a wild panic building in every cell of her body. It all pushed up into her chest until it was an unbearable pressure.

Callaghan kicked her legs out to a wide stance, held her braceleted wrists and began to search her. As much as she abhorred being restrained, she hated even more that his hand ran up her legs. When it ran between her legs she twisted and bucked, pulling at the cuffs. You bastard. His hand came around her waist, started up her abdomen and spent too long running over her small breasts, as he pressed her into him in an attempt to restrain her wild protests. What the hell do you think I’m hiding in there? Her shoulders twisted side to side violently now, trying to shake him off. She gained enough space between them enabling her to start backing up along the side of the Jeep. Losing her balance, she landed hard on her back, with no way to break the fall. He started moving towards her and she desperately tried to push herself back, pedaling her legs hard against the gravel drive.

Stop.

Callaghan swung around to see Maggie and Gray Rowan standing on the porch – both of their eyes wide with shock and Rowan with a hand over her mouth and tears pooling in brilliant blue eyes.

Jesus. Jesus. He swung back around to stare at a terrified Sinclair on the ground. How the hell did he get so out of control? Was it him? Had he lost it? Or was it her violent reaction? He moved to her, calmer now. Let me help you up. He bent and reached out to gently grab her elbow, but she flinched away.

Don’t touch me. Taylor swung her lower legs under her as she reared up so she was kneeling, and then stood up from there. She was shaking violently, her arms fiercely yanking at the cuffs.

Okay, fine. I’m not going to touch you, he said calmly. But you’re getting in the back of the squad.

I haven’t done anything. You’re the one who should be getting in the back of the car. Turning her cuffed hands towards him, she pleaded, Take these things off me. You have to take them off.

He moved to the car, opened the back door. In, or I’ll put you in.

She didn’t want him touching her again. Her chest was burning, her face flushed and her breaths rapid and short. Glaring at him, she moved to the car, squeezed herself in and sat.

He slammed the door and went back to searching the Jeep with Maggie and Gray watching him from the porch. Taylor sat in the back of the car, her head sunk to her chest as she tried to control her breathing and calm herself down. It wasn’t that she was worried he would find something incriminating in there. He wouldn’t. She was embarrassed. All of her possessions were in that Jeep. There was one extra set of clothes that consisted of a pair of jeans and a thin shirt, an old pair of running shoes, a plastic bag containing her toothbrush, toothpaste, brush, shampoo and deodorant. There was a dog-eared, well-read copy of Raging River. Her cheap wallet was in the glove compartment with the map that she purchased the day before. Inside the wallet was an old, worn picture of herself with Leila, a folded picture of Ralph Morse, and twenty-three dollars and fifteen cents.

Callaghan slammed the passenger door shut after searching the entire vehicle. He stood with his hands on his hips, the map and her copy of Raging River in his hand and took a couple of deep breaths.

Patrick, what the hell is going on? Maggie asked. She and Gray hadn’t moved. Gray’s hand still covered her mouth.

Let’s go inside. Ms. Rowan, I need to speak with you privately. He went up the porch steps and Maggie started to move to open the door. Gray stood where she was, lowered her hand from her face and asked, What about Taylor?

She stays in the car, for her own protection.

From herself ... or from you? Gray asked, the terror of what she’d just witnessed turning to anger now.

Please, let’s go inside.

Taylor waited until they were in the house, calmed herself down with some deep breathing, then laid back on the seat. She pulled her arms under her butt and around her feet, sat back up with the cuffs in the front now. Folding her thumb into her palm, she squeezed her hands out of the restraints with a deep sigh of relief. She massaged her raw and bruised wrists then hung the cuffs in the waist band of her jeans at the small of her back. Lying back down on the seat, she curled up on her side and waited.

CHAPTER 3

GRAY TOOK CALLAGHAN into her office where the walls were filled with books. Her desk was by the window. Across from it, two high back chairs were separated by a side table. She gestured for him to take one while she sat in the other.

He tried his best not to stare, but this woman was as breathtaking as Taylor and he was having a hell of a time keeping his eyes off her. How much do you know about her, Ms. Rowan?

Why don’t you begin by telling me what she did to deserve that?

He dropped his head, but didn’t answer her question. He told her everything Taylor had been up to since she had come into the police station the previous morning. He told her he had studied the police files on Ralph Morse, read Raging River. He’d run Taylor Sinclair and she had no criminal record. He accessed her case worker’s reports. She’d been in foster care from age five to ten. When she lost her sister, she lost everything she had. After that, she refused to stay in foster homes. They’d pick her up at school, put her back in a foster care home and she’d take right off again and show up at school the next morning. In time, they stopped taking her back and she eventually lived permanently on the streets. Other than the running away, she stayed out of trouble. Often, she would show up at school with injuries and they would take her straight to the nurse’s office. More often than not, Taylor’s case worker was called to take her to the hospital. She’d been interviewed by police after most of these hospital visits, but always refused to cooperate.

Enough, Gray pleaded, struggling to wrap her head around the information he was spilling.

He rubbed his hands over his face. The police questioned her after her trips to the hospital because she’d been beaten and sexually assaulted – violently. He turned towards Gray now, made eye contact. I saw those green eyes in the crime scene photos on the victim’s wall that Morse had in his cabin, next to your photo, Grace.

Gray was beyond denying that she was Grace Reilly by this point. She had hoped that Taylor would give up and go back to Toronto, where she was safe. I looked into those eyes for three days straight and couldn’t look away. I knew she was the next. The look in those trusting emerald eyes gave me the courage to fight, to escape. So young, she was just so young.

I pushed her buttons this morning, trying to scare her back to Toronto. God, that was stupid. She made me so angry and she just kept fighting. He shook his head, paused for a moment, knowing there was no excuse for what he had done to her. She’s living in that Jeep. Her last known address is the office of her old case worker in Toronto. Do you know what she has in the Jeep? One pair of jeans, one shirt, your book, he pointed to the ragged copy sitting on the side table, And not even enough money to get her back to Toronto. The Jeep belongs to a Troy Rappaport. I called him last night to make sure it wasn’t stolen. He loaned it to her a few days ago, and told her to keep it as long as she needs it. I don’t understand why she freaked when I started to search the Jeep. I thought for sure there was something in there she didn’t want me to find.

There was, Gray stated simply, looking down at her hands wringing in her lap.

What?

How would you feel if all you owned was a pair of jeans, a shirt and a paperback book? Would you want anyone knowing that?

Jesus, was all he said.

What are you going to do with her now?

I don’t know what the hell to do with her. I could cite her for driving without a license, but how the hell would she pay the fine? I could take her in for not having any form of ID. Christ, I don’t want to do that.

She could stay here with me until this is over.

Great, Morse’s two most likely targets staying in the same house.

You think he’s out there, too.

I do, but I can’t do anything about it. Not until I have proof that he’s at least in the area. It scares the hell out of me that she’ll go back up there looking for him by herself. I don’t think she even realizes that it was her photograph on that wall. She’s seen the police file, I know it. But I don’t think she’s seen the picture of that wall. She has no idea how much danger she’s putting herself in.

In the book, I changed the eye colour. I’ve never seen eyes the colour of glittering emeralds like that. I never wanted her to know she was next, that if I hadn’t escaped, she would have met with the same fate as her sister. Maybe whoever got her the file, wanted to spare her that, too. Gray couldn’t stop thinking that she may have saved Taylor from Ralph Morse, but no one had saved her from the streets.

Maybe someone that cares about her enough to lend her a vehicle, Callaghan thought. He made a mental note to run Troy Rappaport through the system.

This place is like Fort Knox, or so I’m told. Let her stay with me for the time being.

Gray accompanied Callaghan to release Taylor from the back of the car. When he opened the door, she was sitting there with her head down, hands in her lap. Where the hell are my cuffs?

I don’t wear bracelets. Taylor pulled the cuffs out from the small of her back and handed them to Callaghan straight faced. When she looked up, she glimpsed the laughter in Gray’s eyes.

Son of a bitch. Callaghan took a deep breath, let it go. You’re free to go, Sinclair.

She stepped out of the car, wearily. What about my book, my map?

Ms. Rowan has your book inside.

What about my map? She waited. I can just buy another one.

Stay the hell out of it, Sinclair. That’s a warning. The last one you’re getting. He got into his car and disappeared down the drive.

Taylor started to move toward the Jeep when Gray said, Why don’t you come inside and we’ll talk. Maggie’s just making some lunch.

I should really go. She was embarrassed still and horrified that Gray and Maggie had been witness to the scene between her and Callaghan.

We’re not so different, you and I.

Taylor knew all about Grace Reilly, knew she went into foster care at age twelve, when her mother passed away from cancer. But that didn’t make them alike and it tipped her that Ms. Rowan knew her history. So he did do some investigating, except he didn’t investigate Morse, he investigated me. He’s focusing on me when he should be focused on finding that monster.

He investigated Morse, too. He ran you because he’s concerned and worried you’re putting yourself in grave danger. Please, come inside.

Taylor stood there thinking for a moment. She was hungry, so hungry. She’d been eating as little as possible, trying to stretch out what little money she had. At least in Toronto she knew where the dumpsters behind restaurants offered the best scrounging. There wasn’t much to be scrounged in this small town. The offer of lunch was too much for her to turn down. Besides, she wanted her book and her map. I guess, for a little while. Then I really need to go.

On the way up the porch steps, Gray said, That’s a hell of a trick with the hand cuffs.

* * *

They sat at a table in the kitchen, Taylor concentrating on eating her turkey sandwich slowly, when all she really wanted to do was scarf it down. She was pretty sure it was real turkey meat in the sandwich, although she didn’t think she’d ever had real turkey. One thing was for sure, it tasted awesome.

What are you going to do now, Taylor?

Taking a sip of milk to wash the sandwich down,