She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. What an inane thing to say. Shock, she must be going into shock. How long had they fought? Had it been only five minutes? Half an hour? She felt like she had struggled against him for days; her body was tired and sore. Never mind the blood caked around her mouth and the gaping slash across her shin. She put her hand up to her face. Her nose was broken again. Damn.

She eyed the man. He was facedown and canted slightly to one side. She slipped her toes under his right arm and flipped him with her foot. Maybe there was some adrenaline left in her system. The shot was true; she could see a tiny hole in his forehead. Reaching down, she felt for his carotid pulse, but there was nothing. He was definitely dead.

"Oh, David," she said. "What were you thinking?"

"I still have the scar on my leg from the coffee table." Taylor brushed tears out of her eyes and swallowed the lump in her throat. She shifted, coming back to the present, shaking the past away. She stared at Delores.

"The grand jury heard this story. They felt I'd acted in self-defense. I did act in self-defense. Your office cleared me of any wrongdoing. Whatever you've seen on this tape is a lie. It's been doctored. The electricity had cut out during the attack and came back on. Surely that would give a gap in the tape. It would be easy to fill in the blank."

The Oompa squiggled off her chair. Standing, she was the same height as Taylor was sitting. She looked Taylor over.

"We'll be the ones who determine that, Lieutenant. There has also been a complaint filed against you for harassment and unlawful detainment. It seems you had an unpleasant conversation with a possible witness. He says you drew your weapon. Is this true?"

Crap. God damn Tony Gorman. She'd underestimated him.

"That's not exactly what happened."

"We'll see. I think you've crossed one too many lines, Miss. I'm sorry, but while we investigate, you're going to have to turn in your badge and gun. We have to do this by the book. You are on an unpaid suspension as of this moment, and the investigation into your actions will tell us what really happened the night of your fellow officer's murder. It's hard to manipulate a videotape, despite what television might tell you. And we'll be looking into the harassment charges as well."

"What?" Taylor asked, as Price said, "You can't suspend her for this! She's done nothing wrong."

The Oompa smiled her crooked smile and held out her hand. "Oh? I think killing a fellow officer in cold blood qualifies as wrong, Captain. I think threatening witnesses qualifies as wrong. I can suspend the lieutenant, and I just did. The public would have my head if they thought we were covering this up. Your weapon and badge, Lieutenant."

Taylor struggled to shut her mouth. She wasn't going to help herself by reacting any more than she already had. The Oompa had it in for her, she realized that now. And that could be deadly for her career. Without looking at Price, who was shouting curses at Norris, she stood. She towered over the Oompa, who didn't blink, just raised her hand higher.

Taylor unsnapped her Glock from her hip holster and set it in Norris's tiny little palm. Then she removed her shield from her belt and set it gently on top of the service weapon. She swallowed and the roar sounded in her ears. Her heart started to pound, and she heard nothing else. She turned smartly on her heel and marched from the OPA offices.

Twenty-Nine.

Taylor didn't stop. She ignored Price calling her name, ignored the snickering coming from Norris, just walked straight out of the administrative offices, and out of the building. The sun was preparing to set, the darkness of early spring supple in the sky.

Suspended. And here she'd been worried about Lincoln. That was fine. She didn't care. All she knew was she needed to get far away from the sneer of the Oompa, from Price's indignation on her behalf, from her own memories. She kicked it into high gear as soon as she was down the stairs, her cowboy boots ringing out on the pavement as her steps got faster and faster. She hit full speed, legs stretching out, her stride lengthening as she crossed the parking lot. She went to the first available car, a cream-colored Caprice. The door was unlocked, the keys tucked into the visor. She barely slowed, just threw herself into the seat, slammed the key home, turned the ignition and peeled out.

"Damn, damn, damn, damn." She repeated the word over and over, the mantra helping her calm a bit. The fury boiled over as she pulled out of the parking lot. She never looked back, just focused on the road ahead. She had no idea where she was going, she didn't see anything outside the windshield. She just drove. North, south. It didn't matter. Her cell phone rang. She reached into her pocket and turned it off without looking.

Downtown bled away. Noise and dirt and memories slipped away. She drove and drove, unaware.

She exited the highway when the full moon captured her attention. She'd been driving in circles around Nashville, delving into the backroads would be her escape. She got on a windy, two-lane road heading west. She knew the area well enough to realize she was well south of Franklin, somewhere below Leiper's Fork. She knew her way home, she could drive straight west until she hit the Natchez Trace, then drive north. The back way home. Fitting really. She'd never been able to take the easy path through life, but always ended up somewhere that she could find her way.

The night sky was deepening, the moonbeams stalking the trees, making them look like men lining the road. Ghosts in this area, she knew. So many battles fought, so many lives lost. The trees were silent soldiers, a path of sentries allowing her passage.

She came to a railroad crossing and slowed, making sure there wasn't a train coming. The railroad tracks were deserted, and as she drove over the bumps she looked left, then to her right. Something was on the tracks. She slowed more and looked closer. It didn't fully register until she was across the tracks.

A dog. A beagle, from the looks of it, slowly trotting away from her, alone on the moonlit tracks. The sight broke something inside her. She pulled the car over, safely out of the way of oncoming cars and trains. She got out, hiked back up the little hill to the crossing, and started after the dog.

"Hey, puppy. Stop, sweetie. You're going to get hurt." The dog, hearing her voice, did stop. He turned and lolled a doggy grin at her, cocking his head to the side. Like he was saying, hey, lady, whatcha doing on the tracks? You might get hurt.

She snapped her fingers and whistled low. He wagged his tail and grinned his doggy grin. He didn't come to her. He just stood and watched her come closer and closer. He wasn't wearing a collar. He wasn't terribly scrawny, but he wasn't fat and glistening as if he'd recently escaped from a backyard. He looked like a traveler, one who knew the shortest routes, the easiest cut-throughs. A vagabond dog, out to see the world. To confirm her feeling, when she was close enough to touch him, he reached forward with his snout, touched her hand briefly, then turned and trotted away. The tracks arched to her left, going around a bend, and Taylor watched his wagging tail fade away around the curve. He didn't want to be helped. He belonged in his little doggy world, knew where he needed to be and what he was supposed to be doing. Unlike her.

She realized she was crying only when the dog disappeared.

Baldwin had worked himself into a state. Taylor hadn't answered her cell phone for hours, Aiden was still on the loose somewhere local, and the television spewed rumor and innuendo about his lover on every channel. If faced with an opponent at this moment, he felt fairly sure he'd be able to wring his neck with little trouble.

It was near midnight when his cell phone finally rang. Thank God, it was her. He answered the phone, short and sharp.

"Jesus, Taylor, where have you been? You scared the hell out of me."

He heard the thickness in her voice, like she'd been crying recently. It broke his heart. Not a characteristic that was common to his woman. Weakness wasn't her style.

She spoke softly. "Don't yell at me, okay? I'm fine. I'm heading home. I need sleep. I need to figure out what I'm going to do. I'm tired. Are you there?"

"I am." He softened his tone. "Have you eaten?"

"I'm not hungry," came the flat reply. "I could use a cigarette, though."

He gave a half laugh. "Okay. I can probably arrange that, you have a pack stashed around here somewhere. Just drive safe, all right? I'll see you when you get here."

"Bye," she said, and she was gone. All the breath left him in a hurry. He hadn't realized just how worried he was for her until he knew she was okay.

Damn. How could things have gone so far south so quickly? It was barely twenty-four hours since she'd called and told him of the sex tapes. Now they were all over the news, in addition to the one showing Taylor shooting David Martin. He felt certain he could discredit that video easily, he had people working on it already. It seemed an audio track had been added that made it sound like Martin was begging for his life. Easily proven. But the damage of Taylor being forced to hand in her badge would take longer to undo.

He saw lights angle into the front window. He snapped off the television midreport, went to the garage and opened the door. He smiled when she came into the warmly lit room. Her hair stood on end, her nose was slightly red. Her gray eyes were stormy, a furious tempest raging in their depths.

"Who's the porcupine now," he asked, taking her into his arms. She sighed, not rising to the tease. Her back was ramrod-straight, her muscles clenched. He ached for her, wondered if he should try to talk or take her straight to bed. Instead, her stomach rumbled loudly.

"Let me make you something," he said.

"No, really. I'm okay." Her heart wasn't in it, she sounded decidedly absent. He released her. Ignoring her protestations, he went ahead and opened a can of soup, warmed the oven for bread. She stood woodenly at the sink, staring out into the backyard.

The soup heated quickly. He poured a cup, set it and half of a sliced baguette on the table, then prodded her to the seat. He was struck by a memory of his mother, easing him into a chair after appendix surgery in junior high. Her cosseting had upset him, so he took the lesson to heart and stepped away, allowing Taylor to reach for the spoon without condemnation.

A few more moments passed. He let the silence linger, then poured a cup of soup for himself and sat across from Taylor at the table.

She finally spoke. "I keep trying to build a future, and the past won't let me. Martin, L'Uomo, my idiot parents. Every time I take a step forward, something happens to slam me back. I don't get it."

Her tone had changed to quiet resignation. Arguing her success was fruitless now, he knew that. He decided to try a different tack.

"Do you want to hear what's going on, or would you rather not?"

She looked at him, a fine spark of curiosity crossing her features. That's my girl, he thought.

She sighed deeply, then dipped her bread in the soup and began eating. "Oh, it's hot." She dropped the bread back on the plate, laid the spoon down. "You might as well tell me. It's not likely to go away just because I'm avoiding it."

"No, it's not. But I think I can help."

"I don't know about that, babe. I might've just fucked things up for good." That uncharacteristic note of fragility was back, and Baldwin longed to comfort her.

"Hardly. I have a friend working on the tape of David Martin's shooting. She's already found several dubbing marks, so we should be able to discredit that accusation by morning. As for the others, I spent some time with Lincoln after you left. He wants you to call him, by the way." He gestured toward his cell phone, but she shook her head.

"Later," she said.

"Okay. He gave me all of his data and I fed it to another friend, the one I told you was working on a similar case. He's already tracked down the owners of the Web site and had it pulled from the Net. No new tapes will show up."

"Oh, crap. The girls!"

"Huh?"

"I was supposed to go over to the cabin, look for any cameras that might be there. I fell asleep last night, and forgot this morning, with all this...mess." The bitterness in her voice was unfamiliar.

"They called. They went through everything and found a couple of minicams, right in the vents where you suggested they look. Your crime scene tech, Tim Davis, has already collected them and taken them back for analysis. I'm having them sent to Sherry Alexander, she's the friend I mentioned who's working on the tapes. If anyone can find a route back to their owners, it's her."

Taylor nodded, her hair swinging forward to cover her face. Impatiently, she started to wind it back into a ponytail, then stopped. Her arms dropped to her side as exhaustion overcame her.

"Still want that cigarette?" he asked.

Taylor shook her head. "Hon, I need to go to bed. Take me?"

"Of course." He stood, pulling her to her feet. He intended to be tender, to gently raise her to her feet, brush her lips with his, but the proximity of her body coupled with this strange vulnerability was too much for him. He kissed her roughly. She responded, arms wrapped around him like a vise, and for a moment he wondered if they'd even make it upstairs. The kiss deepened and he felt himself harden. She grabbed his hand and led him from the kitchen. He turned off the light as they went.

Friday.

Thirty.

Taylor woke at 5:00 a.m. The barest hint of light nudged at the blinds, day trying to force its way into their bedroom. She glanced at Baldwin-he was lying on his back, naked, arms flung over his head. She rolled toward him, snuggling in to his bare chest. His arms came round her body automatically, their warmth and safety allowing her to close her eyes again.

She was just drifting back to sleep when the phone rang. They both jumped. She glanced at the clock, more time had passed than she thought. It was now six-forty.

"You get it. I don't want to talk to anyone," she said.

Baldwin groaned, then unhanded her and reached for the phone. She curled up on her side, strangely happy. After everything that happened yesterday, the knowledge that he was here with her made the bad stuff seem less important.

Baldwin rumbled hello into the phone, sounding so hoarse and male that it warmed her insides. A few seconds later he stiffened, then sat up, pulling the sheet with him. He reached for the television remote, clicking it on and turning the station to MSNBC. He nudged her in the back. She rolled to him, and he pointed at the TV. He turned the sound up, and her heart sank. A blonde wearing a well-cut cream suit and a New York newscaster bob was in a split screen with Michelle Harris. Concern was etched across her artificially smooth forehead.

"Miss Harris, you're telling us that the Metro Nashville Police have mishandled your sister's murder investigation? It was our understanding that a suspect has been arrested in the case, your brother-in-law, is that correct?"

"That's true, they have arrested Todd. But after the situation yesterday, I can't be sure that he was the right person to arrest. If the police can't be trusted not to kill their own, how could they possibly arrest the right man?"

"Oh, God," Taylor said.

The blonde pursed her lips and tapped a pen against them, looking pensive. "Ms. Harris, is there something that you've discovered that questions the veracity of the arrest?"

Michelle looked confused for a moment, and Taylor realized she didn't know the meaning of the word veracity. A moment of pity overcame her and just as quickly fled when Michelle spoke again.

"All I know is that this investigation has been a mess from the word go. And to top it all off, the woman leading the charge has been on the news here because of her sordid private life."

A malicious smile spread across Michelle's face. Taylor thought don't do it. Michelle ignored the silent plea.

"It was all over the news last night, those disgusting tapes of her having sex with her partner, then shooting him to death in cold blood. What kind of person does that? And how can the Nashville police leave her on the job?"

"An excellent point, Ms. Harris. Representatives from the Metro Nashville police have confirmed to MSNBC that Lieutenant Taylor Jackson has been relieved of duty pending an investigation into her actions."

Taylor's stomach turned. "Oh, Jesus. I think I'm going to throw up."

Baldwin started to turn the television off. His face, unguarded for a moment, was contorted with anger.

"We will sue the living shit out of them for that, babe. Don't worry for a minute. They have no right-"

"Wait, shhh. Stop, stop, don't turn that off. What's she saying?"

The blonde had finished her character assassination of Taylor and gone back to the matter at hand. "Now, tell me, Ms. Harris, what did you find last night that convinces you that this investigation is being mishandled?"

Michelle Harris gleamed. She held up a sheaf of papers and shook them. The rustling was amplified, she'd gotten the papers directly next to the mike that was clipped to the top of her blouse. "That detective on the case, the lieutenant, she's got a history of brutality. I have a friend who told me she has been cited several times in the past for over-the-top violence against suspects. She's killed more people than anyone on the police force. It's all right here."

The anchor was beside herself with glee. "We need to take a break, please stay with us." The screen went to commercial and Baldwin hit mute. Taylor already had the phone in her hand.

"Whoa, who are you calling?"

Taylor stopped, then set the phone back in the cradle.

"Work. Fitz. Someone. I don't know. I can't believe she'd go on the news and say that. Where is she getting her information?"

"That's an excellent question. Mischaracterized as it may be, that's damaging."

Taylor started to pace. "I figured she was a fame seeker the second she started doing the talk shows. Corinne was the favorite, Michelle was the one in the family who always felt outcast. I've assumed this is her way of getting some attention-first going on everywhere to talk about finding the body, the 911 tapes, and now this. Something isn't quite right with Miss Michelle, I'll tell you that right now. No way, Jose." She grabbed the phone again.

"Taylor," Baldwin said.

She continued dialing, setting the phone between her shoulder and her ear, looking for a pad she kept on the night table to write some quick notes.

"What?"

"Babe, you can't do that. You need to let me handle it."