Detective Taylor Jackson is having a hard time. A bullet from The Pretender, a diabolical serial killer, nearly ends her life but, instead, leaves her with the inability to speak as well as terrifying flashbacks and nightmares. There's no way to know if her speech will return. On top of that, she's dealing with guilt and trust issues with herself as well as from those close to her.
When Memphis Highsmythe offers to let her come stay at his family's home located in the Scottish Highlands so that she can recover in peace, it seems like the perfect solution. Taylor knows that Memphis is attracted to her, but he's promised to behave himself. When she tells her fiance, Dr. John Baldwin, of Memphis's invitation, he's less than thrilled. He doesn't trust Memphis for reasons of his own but he's also aware of how he feels about Taylor, but John and Taylor haven't been getting along since she was released from the hospital. He knows that the only way to heal their problems is when Taylor is totally healed and can return to work. So, he reluctantly gives his approval.
Taylor is met by Memphis at the airport in London and he whisks her away to his home, which turns out to be a true Scottish Castle. At first, this seems to be just what she needed. Then it starts to become apparent that Memphis is, indeed, "wooing" her. Memphis lost his wife 3 years earlier to a terrible car accident and he's really not completely over her. Yet, he seems to feel that Taylor is his path to true happiness again, and she can't really deny that she's attracted to him, too. Although, she truly loves John, it's very tempting to take what Memphis is offering.
Memphis even introduces Taylor to a dear friend of his, Dr. Madeira "Maddee" James, who's a psychiatrist. Maddee may be helpful when it comes to helping Taylor regain the use of her voice.
However, things soon start to become really strange at the castle. Taylor is seeing and hearing things that couldn't possibly be real. She's been told that the castle is haunted but she's never believed in such things as ghosts...until now. Things continue to get worse until Taylor is no longer sure what's real and how much of it can be attributed to what can only be described as her continuing descent into depression and madness. Will coming to Scotland give Taylor her life back or end it?
I love all of J.T. Ellison books. She simply cannot write a bad book as far as I'm concerned. WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE is a bit of a departure from the other Taylor Jackson books in the series and, for me, it totally worked! This was a mind-bending, frightening story. Don't worry, Ms. Ellison also packs in some really smoking romance scenes. Whether you're a fan or not, this book isn't to be missed!
In her showdown with the murderous Pretender, a bullet taken
at close range severed the connection between Taylor's
thoughts and speech. Effectively mute, there's no telling if
her voice will ever come back. Trapped in silence, she is
surrounded by ghostsโof the past, of friendships and trusts
lostโฆof a lost faith in herself and her motives that
night.
When Memphis Highsmythe offers Taylor his home
in the Scottish Highlands to recuperate, her fiancรฉ can't
refuse her excitement, no matter his distrust of the man. At
first, Memphis's drafty and singularly romantic castle seems
the perfect place for healing. But shortly the house itself
surrounds her like a menacing presence. As Taylor's sense of
isolation and vulnerability grows, so, too, does her grip on
reality.
Someone or something is coming
after Taylor. But is she being haunted by the deadโฆor hunted
by the living?
EXCERPT
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 fiance. 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.
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