Текст книги "All The Pretty Girls"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

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deaths. In an instant, all the comfort and stability she had known was gone. The Connollys were returning from an evening at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center, a drive they’d taken innumerable times. In a brutal collision, two loving, vivacious, happy people were stolen from their family by a drunk driver. Though it had been eight years, time hadn’t lessened her sense of loss. The uneasy peace their parents had provided between the siblings never fully recovered. The three children split their parents’ fortune, but the rift between them grew with each passing year.

Whitney struck out on her own, throwing herself into her work, building her career. It fell to Quinn to mother Reese, shepherding him through his final year of high school, then getting him settled at Vanderbilt. Quinn had met Jake Buckley by then, and was getting pretty hot and heavy with him, but Jake was a good guy. Waiting for Quinn’s little brother to get out of the house so they could marry wasn’t a big problem for him. Quinn’s money would cement his place in the world. All the Pretty Girls

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The unwelcome thought of Reese made Whitney’s stomach turn. Even all these years later, she still resented him. Reese had always been an exceptional child, gifted in ways Whitney would never be. He was brilliantly smart and driven. He entered Vanderbilt when he was fifteen, finished his undergraduate coursework in two years and started in their medical school program. Now Reese was finishing his final year of residency in psychiatry.

Whitney thought back to the last time she’d seen him. It wasn’t a planned meeting, they’d just run into each other at Quinn’s home. He’d been talking about going to some godforsaken country in South America to work with a group operating on poor people. What lofty aspirations the boy had. Yet Quinn had been all dewy eyed about it, such an amazing opportunity, he’s so young, blah, blah, blah. Grudges could last a lifetime, Whitney knew that better than anyone. Quinn understood. She didn’t approve, she just understood. Maybe she should give her sister a call. She looked at the clock. Surely Quinn was finished with tennis or dropping the twins at school or whatever it was she did in the mornings with all of her and Jake’s money. Taking one last look at the birch tree, she shook off the past.

She picked up the phone and speed dialed her sister’s cell phone. The voice mail answered instead, requesting in Quinn’s perfectly cultured southern accent that she leave a message. Whitney hung up without saying a word, instantly relieved. She’d just try again later. Slamming the empty can into the sink, she walked back to her office. She wheeled her chair back to the 136

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desk and pulled out her file on the Southern Strangler. Maybe she could get some more work done on the background story. She was theorizing on many of the killer’s attributes, working off research that she had gathered over the years on serial kidnappers and killers. She worked quietly, the hour passing quickly. Closing the file, she stretched and decided it would be a good idea to hit Starbucks for another coffee. She always asked for Starbucks cards as presents, she lived off their espresso. She walked to the living room, gathering her purse, when something on the television screen caught her eye.

A News Alert was flashing across the screen. They’d found Marni Fischer.

She sat and turned up the volume. The anchor was intoning that Marni Fischer’s body had been found off Highway 81 in Roanoke, Virginia. Roanoke. Something niggled at the back of Whitney’s mind. She ran back into her office and pulled the file out again, reading the names of the cities involved.

“Huntsville, Baton Rouge, Jackson, Nashville, Noble, Roanoke. Huntsville, Baton Rouge, Jackson, Nashville, Noble, Roanoke.”

Her heart was starting to beat just a little faster. Hands shaking, she pulled out the notes again, copies of the poems she had printed from her e-mail. She read through them, her breath coming in little gasps. Read them again. And again. Then it hit her. She knew who the Southern Strangler was.

She dropped the files and grabbed her cell phone out of her purse. Journalistic creed be damned. Screw the anchor job in New York. She had to warn her sister. Eighteen

Taylor sat back in her chair, her hands entwined in her long blond hair. Sunlight glinted through the slats of the Venetian blinds behind her, the window one more small concession to her rising credibility in the world. The words of the doctor slapped through her brain like a pinball. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.

She ran the conversation with Dr. Gregory over and over in her head, as if she could rearrange the words, realign their meaning.

“That’s impossible. I’m not late. I haven’t ever been late. I think I’d know if I was late. And I’m on the Pill. Trust me, it’s not something I forget about. So you have to be wrong.”

“Taylor, these things happen. The tests are very sensitive, they can detect pregnancy hormones almost immediately. What you need to do is relax. I’m going to prescribe a prenatal vitamin for you and I want you taking one milligram of folic acid every day. No 138

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drinking, of course. And I don’t suppose I have to tell you no smoking?”

Taylor felt like throwing up. Psychosomatic, she told herself. She couldn’t have morning sickness just because the doctor told her she was pregnant.

“I’m telling you, Doc, this just can’t be. I never—”

“It can, and it is,” he said gently. “Now, I want you to make an appointment with your OB/GYN, and she can go over all of the additional information with you.”

His voice had quieted even more. “This is a blessing, Taylor. With the damage done to your body, you should be jumping for joy that it happened so soon. It’s going to be fine, I promise. I have to run now, but I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

He’d hung up as soon as she whispered okay back to him. She stared at the phone receiver, then tossed it across the room like it was a snake that tried to bite her. Damn. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to have a baby. Just not now. At least, not until she knew if Baldwin was into that kind of stuff. They had been too busy doing what it took to make a kid rather than talking about the consequences. Consequences. Hell, she sounded like a thirteen-year-old in an after-school movie. What in the name of God was she going to do?

She picked up her cell phone and dialed Baldwin’s number. As soon as she hit Send, she hit End and put the phone down on the desk in front of her. The tears started to come, and she felt even worse. As a woman in her mid-thirties, she should be thrilled at the mere thought of a healthy child. Nearly everyone she knew had at least one child in the stable. The ones who didn’t were desperately trying—innocuous pre– All the Pretty Girls 139

scription bottles of Clomid suddenly appearing on the bathroom vanity, the fervent prayers that the little stick would turn pink and the bleeding wouldn’t begin. Then that heart-stopping moment when it did. The shots of Ovidrel, once daily, the woman bent in half in front of the mirror making sure her man is sticking her right. The prayers again that the maturation of the follicle would kick out that magic egg. The basal thermometers, the ovulation kits, tired husbands jacking off into plastic cups, their despair and embarrassment nearly as bad as their wives’ desire for offspring. The in vitro fertilization, the bank accounts dwindling, all in that desperate search for something permanent of themselves to be left on this earth. Most of these women had spent years trying not to get pregnant; suddenly finding themselves unable to fulfill that one promise of womanhood was more than they could take.

The level of guilt Taylor felt rose appreciably. She wasn’t trying to get pregnant. She didn’t want to be pregnant. Hell, she and Baldwin were just finding each other. How would that fragile union support another life?

They had never spoken of children. Their lives didn’t seem to have room for that kind of future right now. A knock on her door startled her. She quickly wiped away the tears, cleared her throat, mussed her hair and said, “Come in.”

The door opened and ADA Julia Page stepped into the room. Glancing over her shoulder, she shut the door behind her, then leaned back against it. She looked Taylor up and down.

“Bad time?”

“No, not at all. I was just…” Taylor shrugged as her 140

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voice trailed off. No need to explain herself. Julia wouldn’t be interested in the details.

Julia Page was one of the assistant district attorneys representing Davidson County. Smart as a whip and about as tall as a dandelion, she looked more like a Pomeranian fluffed out for Westminster than the cutthroat attorney that she was. Her light brown curls framed her face, making her seem innocent and pure, a tactic that had snowed many a criminal. They got on the stand and saw her sweet blue eyes and cupid-bow lips and just knew that this sweet young thing was no threat. How wrong they were.

“Good, because we need to talk.” Page stayed standing, keeping her eye level with Taylor’s sitting form. “I think we have a problem.”

Taylor groaned. If ADA Page was visiting with a

“problem,” it must be a doozy. A headache began to take hold behind her right eye. She reached into her top drawer and drew out a bottle of Excedrin, popped the top, then shook three out into her hand. She put them in her mouth and chased them with a swig of tepid Diet Coke. A thought hit her hard as she swallowed—

caffeine. She probably shouldn’t be having either the pills or the soda. She shook the thought off.

“What’s wrong then, Page?”

Page took a deep breath and practically spit out the words. “Terrence Norton.”

“What did the little turd do now?”

“He just walked out of Judge Hamilton’s court a free man.”

That caught Taylor’s attention. “What do you mean, a free man? We have him dead to rights on murder one.”

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“Had,” Page corrected. “Had him dead to rights. Jury acquitted him in forty-five fucking minutes. Forty-five fucking minutes, Taylor. All the evidence, the testimony, hell, the witnesses, none of that seemed to matter. We lost this trial, and it’s a huge mess. You heard about the projects shooting a few days ago?”

Taylor nodded. “East Homicide caught it, they had the shooter in custody by the end of the night.”

“Well, the vic was going to be a witness against Terrence in this trial. A few weeks ago, he changed his mind and his testimony, decided that he didn’t see what he thought he saw. Refused to testify. We dropped him from the list, we had other witnesses. It smells like a hit, just in case he changed his mind again. The shooter is from Atlanta. He’s claiming he was in town to see a friend who lived at the apartment next door to the witness. Says he and his ‘friend’ had an argument over the price of a package of heroin, the kid was lingering and was shot accidentally. That’s just too damn convenient for me.”

“I agree. There’s more there. So Terrence is running drugs out of Atlanta now?”

Page snorted. “Right now, Terrence could be walking on the moon. He’s really managed to build a reputation for himself. Did you know he’s moving around town with four bodyguards when he’s not in the lockup? That smacks of drugs to me, no pun intended. We don’t have anything on it though.”

“And the trial fell apart?”

“Yeah. His peers didn’t think we substantiated our facts. That’s a quote from the jury foreman, by the way. He’s out on the courthouse steps, talking to 142

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Channel fucking Four about it. And every other station that will listen.”

“Can’t you throw a gag order at them, or something?”

“No. Trial’s over, they’re free to say what they want. Terrence walked out of there like Michael Jackson, to the cheers of his fans. We have a serious problem here, Taylor. A really fucking serious problem.”

Energy spent, Page flopped in the chair, head down.

“We had him. I absolutely can’t believe they acquitted him. This is the third time in the past few months. We have a serious problem,” she repeated. Page was talking to her chest now, and Taylor could feel the waves of frustration rolling off her like a desert breeze. Terrence Norton was a nobody from nowhere. Just another kid from the projects who had himself a rap sheet a mile long, assault, burglary, rape, murder, drugs. He got around the criminal scene, and with each arrest, his street cred went a little higher. With each acquittal, he became stronger, more important in the community. He was becoming a legend, and that was the most perilous thing a young criminal in Nashville could be. If he’d gotten strong enough to be bringing in drugs from out of town, he was more dangerous than they realized.

Taylor understood why Page had come to her. Fitz had developed a sort of rapport with Terrence after his best friend was murdered by another bad guy in the projects. Fitz had been trying to get Terrence to admit that the thug, known as Little Man Graft, had shot Terrence’s friend. In the course of making the case, Terrence had been busted for shooting a homeless man. All the Pretty Girls

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When he’d been brought in, Terrence immediately asked for Fitz, offering to turn on Little Man for some consideration on this latest shooting charge. His testimony had secured Little Man a cell on death row. Fitz had worked a deal with the punk, knowing full well that the officers on the scene of the homeless shooting had recovered a gun that matched the description of what Terrence had been carrying. Fingerprint analysis proved Terrence handled the gun, and the ballistics matched the gun to the bullets that killed the homeless man. Still, this jury had seen fit to let him off the hook. Page was right. They did have a problem. Taylor eyed the woman. “What do you think is going on?”

Page looked her straight in the eye. “Take your pick. Jury tampering, witness intimidation, a corrupt judge.”

Taylor laughed. “Yeah, right. Terrence Norton has gotten to Judge Hamilton. The man’s an icon in this town. He’s put away more criminals than you or I have ever met. There’s no way Hamilton’s involved.”

“You don’t think?” Page was staring harder, and Taylor felt a qualm in her stomach. Taylor’s own father had been convicted of interfering with the election of a federal judge, and had done time for it. Taylor wasn’t quite sure what Page’s glare was insinuating. Judges were bought with money. Terrence Norton didn’t have enough to get to a judge. Not yet.

“No, I don’t think.” Taylor returned the stare, her gray eyes steely. “Jury tampering and witness intimidation I can buy. But not Judge Hamilton. And I think you’d be wise to stay away from that train of thought. ADAs have gone down for much less.”

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Page stood up, huffing. “What are you saying, Taylor? That you’ll report me for having doubts about why one of our most notorious criminals manages to walk out of court every damn time we arrest him, despite hard-core evidence?”

“Sit down. You know I’m not saying that. Jesus, Page, I think you’d know me better than that by now.”

Page was still puffed up, spoiling for a fight. “I’m coming to you because I trust you, Taylor. If there’s anyone in this town that I can believe in to see that this gets made right, it’s you. You’re not exactly the squeamish kind, you know?”

Taylor dropped Page’s gaze, rolling her neck to relieve the tension. Not squeamish. Page was right about that. Taylor had killed, and more than once. She’d fought her way out of bad situations before, with force when necessary, and had the scars to prove it. She wasn’t a violent woman by any means. No screaming fights, no broken glass, no beatings by a man. Yet the edge of mayhem lurked in the recesses of her mind, waiting. What female in any kind of law enforcement didn’t have some inkling of brutality bred in her? She fingered her neck and said softly, “Julia, sit down. Let’s talk.”

The fight went out of the ADA and she sat back down, suddenly looking like a vulnerable law student seeking quarter for a perceived transgression. She fiddled with a curl over her ear, and Taylor realized how young she really was. It was easy to forget how young they both were. Seeing death and destruction every day, living in the world of crime, made them older than their years.

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“I think we’d do right to look at the jury and witness angles, rather than at Judge Hamilton. Terrence has a much better shot at intimidating the people of the community who come into contact with him or his thugs than he does a criminal-court judge.” Page started to say something, but Taylor held up a hand. “Now, I didn’t say I wouldn’t look into Hamilton. I just think it’s much more likely that Terrence is screwing with the people he has ready access to, that’s all.”

Mollified, Page nodded.

Taylor continued. “Okay then, here’s what I’ll do. You trust Pete Fitzgerald, right? My sergeant?”

“Of course I do. Fitz helped make this case against Terrence. From what I hear, he has some kind of relationship going with Terrence. A mutual-distrust society. I have no worries about him.”

“Then I’ll assign Fitz to you. I’ll make sure he’s up to speed on the situation, and send him over this afternoon. You guys come up with a plan for investigating this. And that’s all, Page. I don’t want to hear anything more from you about Hamilton. I’ll handle that side by myself. We can’t have you getting fired, now, can we?”

Taylor stood, indicating the conversation was over. Page stood as well, looked up at Taylor and raised an eyebrow. “I’m out on a limb here, Taylor. Don’t let me drop.” She reached for the doorknob and flung open the door. A flash of fresh air infiltrated the office. As Taylor watched the ADA’s retreating back, she reveled in the air, trying to use it to wash herself clean. A baby and a corrupt judicial system. What more could she ask for?

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There was only one thing for her to do. She placed a call to Sam, asking her to meet for dinner. Taylor needed a friend right now.

Taylor stepped from the CJC offices absently, lost in her own problems. If she’d just taken a moment, taken one quick glance out the door before she stepped into the dusky night, her life might have been a little easier. Instead, she was hit with a vicious onslaught.

“Lieutenant Jackson,” a shrill voice cried out. Taylor’s head snapped up. A news crew from the local CBS affiliate had taken up residence in the CJC parking lot, looking to ambush her as she left the building. They’d succeeded.

“Lieutenant, we’d like a comment from you on the Rainman case. Is it true that your suspect raped and beat Detective Betsy Garrison of the Sex Crimes Unit?”

Taylor was caught completely off guard. She paused, mind scrambling. Shit fire on a hell brick. How did they find out? She gathered herself, standing tall.

“Is it true, Lieutenant?”

Taylor searched the young girl’s face, trying to place her.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Edith Conrad, Channel Five News. It’s my first day,” she added proudly. “Is it true then? Detective Garrison is the latest victim of the notorious serial rapist, the Rainman? The same serial rapist that has been terrorizing Nashville’s women has gone so far as to assault a member of Nashville law enforcement.”

“You can stop proselytizing, Edith. I have no comment on the Rainman investigation. It is an ongoing investigation conducted by the Metro Nashville Sex Crimes All the Pretty Girls

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Unit. We don’t comment on ongoing investigations. Since it’s your first day, I’ll let that transgression pass.”

She strode past the camera, purposely staring at a point five feet to the left.

“Lieutenant,” the girl called out to her back. “I’ll be broadcasting the information on the ten o’clock newscast. I just want to be sure I have the background correct.”

Taylor ignored her, continued walking across the parking lot.

“Lieutenant, it’s also come to our attention that there is DNA evidence in the case. Are you sure you don’t want to comment?”

Taylor swung around. “Where did you get that information?”

Edith smiled coyly. “A well-placed source. Are you willing to confirm or deny the information? Because we both know I’m right on the money with this one.”

Taylor stared at her briefly. The girl was petite, blond and thrilled with herself. Taylor did the only thing she knew to do.

“No comment.” She crossed the street in a hurry, heard the girl’s delighted voice behind her. “Did you get that?’ she asked her photographer. “Please tell me you got all of that.”

“Fuck,” Taylor spat. She reached her truck, climbed in, and drove off before she opened her cell phone. She speed dialed Mitchell Price’s number. He answered on the first ring.

“Price, it’s Taylor. We have a problem. Channel Five has the Garrison rape.”

The string of expletives would have done any sailor 148

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proud. When Price finally calmed down, Taylor relayed the entire incident with the reporter.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“I don’t want you to do anything,” he replied. “I’ll get on the horn, see how we can spin it. Dammit, Taylor, you were supposed to keep this quiet.”

“C’mon, Cap, I have. Only Marcus and Lincoln have the information. The leak came from somewhere else. The hospital, maybe, or the lab. It was a long shot that we were going to be able to keep this quiet.”

“The press isn’t supposed to give the names of rape victims on air or in print without their prior authorization. So hopefully they won’t name Betsy personally. If they do, we’ll light them up like a Christmas tree.”

“It’s the kid’s first day, so I can’t give you an estimate on the amount of integrity she has. But you’d best find a way to quash the story.”

“We won’t be able to quash it entirely, but I’ll make sure they don’t use her name. Dammit!”

“Sorry, Cap. All I can tell you is it didn’t come from me or mine. Good luck with it.”

“Not a word about it, Lieutenant. Hear me? Make sure there’s nothing but a ‘no comment’ coming out of our side of the building.”

“Gotcha. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She hung up, desolate. Nothing was going her way today. Nineteen

Taylor rolled into the parking lot at her favorite watering hole lost in thought. She shoved the worries about Betsy Garrison and the leak from her mind for the moment. There was nothing she could do if the press had the information. Better to let Price deal with it. She had enough worries of her own. Her conversation with ADA Page was fresh in her mind, and she had taken the drive from downtown to Bellevue to think it through. Unfortunately, she had no answers. She was greeted warmly as she entered the bar. It was smoky and dark but situated in a large, almost cavernous space. Big-screen plasma televisions were positioned over the bar, affording sports fans multiple views and coverage of all their favorite pastimes. Regulars nursed whiskey in the corners of the huge U-shaped bar, pushing quarters into the gambling trivia machines as if they’d get some money back. A few college-age coeds giggled at a table, throwing glances over their shoulders to see who was watching them. Ads for the latest beer 150

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hung from banners and were backlit with neon lights. It was a happy place.

Before Taylor was fully seated on her favorite highlegged chair, a chilled glass of Guinness appeared in front of her. She’d taken a liking to Baldwin’s beloved beverage, and had ordered it so many times that the bartenders didn’t bother to ask what she wanted. She gazed at it longingly. She had the presence of mind to know that she shouldn’t drink, but the release she would get from numbing herself begged her for a ride. She rationalized; she’d had at least three beers last night. If she hadn’t talked to her doctor today, hadn’t gotten the news, she would have had at least three more tonight. Perhaps she could just pretend that this wasn’t happening and have it anyway. It sounded like a good idea. The glass almost magically appeared at her lips and she gulped greedily, as if she hadn’t had liquids in weeks. The second pint went down smoother than the first.

Sam blew into the room like a thunderstorm, all heads turning as she wound her way through the bar. Taylor almost laughed. Sam was beautiful, dark hair sleeked into a high ponytail, pieces falling magically around her face as if planned by a master stylist. Even after a long day cutting up Nashville’s dead, she looked as fresh as if she’d just stepped from the shower. As she enveloped her best friend in a hug, Taylor smelled the blissful scent of baby powder. She almost choked on it. Sam looked her over, and Taylor saw realization dawn in her eyes. Taylor had gotten a good drunk on one or two times in the past, and she knew Sam could read the signs that she was headed that way like they All the Pretty Girls

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were plastered in neon on her forehead. Good friend that she was, she just smiled.

“What’s the emergency, sunshine? Hi, Kat.” She grinned at the bartender, a dusky-skinned half-Korean woman who looked almost Hawaiian. “Can I have some water? And get some for our friend here.” She turned to Taylor. “What’s wrong?” she asked bluntly, the smile gone.

Taylor took a deep breath, at a loss. Sam’s belly had reached her first; she was barely three months along and already beginning to show. How she had managed to get pregnant on her honeymoon was usually a great source of amusement for Taylor. Now it was simply depressing.

“I honestly don’t know where to begin. The Rainman case, you’re familiar with it?”

“Yeah. Why’re you worrying about it, that’s Sex Crimes’s case, right?”

“I’ve been helping with it. And it’s going to hit the news tonight. Another victim, and I’m afraid they’re going to name names. That’s all I’m going to say about it, okay?”

Sam nodded. She was savvy to the inner workings of investigations.

“Then there’s Julia Page, all in a dither about a case she lost today. Thinks there’s jury tampering, dropped that in my lap this afternoon. Not to mention all the crap Baldwin’s going through with the Southern Strangler. Do I need more to be upset about?”

“Give me a break, Taylor. That’s all in a day’s work to you. Now, what’s really going on?”

Taylor looked at her sharply. Typical, she couldn’t pull one over on Sam. Might as well get it off her chest. She took a deep breath. “I talked to the doctor today.”

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“Oh no, honey. Is your liver not showing the right levels?”

Taylor barked a laugh, drinking deeply of her draught. “No, the liver’s just fine. There’s a whole new problem.” She tried to look Sam in the eye and failed. She knew Sam would understand. Taylor wasn’t ready for a child. She and Sam had talked about it many times in the past, especially once Sam herself had gotten pregnant. But the immediacy of having to share the news was pressing on her like an anvil. She decided she’d best be out with it before she chickened out.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered.

Sam didn’t miss a beat. “So you’re sitting here trying to get in your cups. Excellent way to manage the stress, Taylor.”

Taylor started shaking her head back and forth, a pendulum of distress. “Noo, that’s not it at all. I’m…”

“You’re at a complete loss. You’re not ready to have a baby. You haven’t told Baldwin because you don’t know how he’s going to react. You don’t know what to think, how to behave, what to do. That about sum it up?”

Taylor gave her a dirty look. “Well, leprosy cases are on the rise, too. Besides, you’re supposed to be encouraging me here. Not—”

“Not what? What do you want me to do? You’re a big girl. You can make decisions for yourself. Did you want me to toss the beer over the railing and lecture you? I’ll do it if you want. But I don’t think that’s why you wanted to talk to me. So get drunk and talk.”

Taylor leaned back in her chair. Shit. That was the problem with good friends. They wouldn’t condemn, wouldn’t fly off the handle. She realized she was All the Pretty Girls

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spoiling for a fight, much like Julia Page in her office earlier. As she fought back a snapping reply, she saw Sam motioning to Kat. A pack of fresh Camel Lights appeared at her elbow. Sam broke open the pack, pulled out a cigarette, held it out to Taylor and lit a match.

“Here, why don’t you have a smoke while you’re at it. Get it all out of your system now, girl, because tomorrow things have to change. For now, just…shit.”

The match had burnt down far enough to burn Sam’s finger. She tossed the pack of matches on the bar and stuck her finger in her mouth.

Free ride. That’s exactly what Taylor had been praying Sam would give her. Sam was a doctor, she knew the risks. If she said it was okay, then it was. She lit the cigarette, drew in deeply and blew blue smoke into the air, mindful to direct the noxious stream away from Sam’s delicate state.

Sam spoke more softly this time. “Sweetie, I know you’re so freaked out right now you can’t see straight. Let’s just ride this out. It’s going to be okay.”

Taylor let the tears start to fall.

Twenty

Whitney was driving in a panic. She’d tried Quinn at home, on her cell phone, at the country club for the remainder of the day yesterday and well into this morning. There was no answer at home or on the cell, and the country club staff hadn’t seen her since Monday after she’d finished her morning workout on the tennis courts. Whitney had continued to hit Redial throughout the evening, finally getting desperate when she reached the answering machine at Quinn’s home for the eighth time this morning. She left a message, telling her sister she was on her way over and to wait for her if she came home. If she got the message, she was to call immediately. She left the same message on Quinn’s cell phone, realizing she was starting to sound slightly hysterical. She needed to get a grip on herself. She might be wrong. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that it was just a coincidence. But she needed to tell her sister face-to-face so they could work it out together. They may not have been close, but Whitney did love her, and would do anything to protect Quinn. All the Pretty Girls