Free Belonging to Taylor by Kay Hooper Page B

got?"
    From his pocket, the detective produced a plastic bag containing a black glove that bore ominous rusty stains on the fingers. He carefully rolled the top of the bag down so that it was possible to touch the material without touching the stains. "This didn't belong to the latest victim, but it was found near the body. If it's his—"
    Taylor reached out to take the bag from him, her fingers closing over the exposed material. She fingered it for a moment in silence, then suddenly went deathly pale. The bagged glove dropped to the floor.
    "Taylor?" Trevor wanted to reach out and hold her suddenly, but he feared to break her concentration or somehow further disturb her with unwanted interference.
    She sent him a reassuring if strained smile and bent to pick up the glove again. "It belongs to the killer," she murmured almost inaudibly. Obviously unwilling to ask it of her, Dave nonetheless spoke gently. "Can you tell me where to look for him?"
    A pulse was beating strongly in Taylor's neck, but her pale face was calm. She closed her eyes and sat for long minutes holding the glove. Then her eyes opened—feverishly bright eyes, Trevor noted in alarm—and she dropped the stained thing on the coffee table beside their unfinished chess game. Her hands rubbed against her jean-clad thighs in the unconscious gesture of wiping away dirt.
    Huskily, she said, "There's an apartment building on the east side of town. An old one. The fire escape faces the street. And there's a windowbox with—with geraniums: second floor, corner apartment. I think he's in that apartment. I know he's in that building. It's somewhere near Maple Street."
    The detective picked up the glove and returned it to his pocket, nodding. "I know the area. Taylor... thank you."
    "Just get him, Dave." Her eyes were still feverishly bright. "Get him before he can do that again."
    He rose to his feet. "I'll call and let you know."
    Luke and Sara walked him to the front door, and Trevor only dimly realized that the others had also left the room; all his attention was focused on the white, stricken face and glittering eyes of the woman sitting stiffly, controlled, at his side.
    'Taylor?"
    She looked at him blindly, trapped somehow in a dark place of little creeping things and big stomping ones. "Why is it," she said in a reasonable, matter-of-fact tone, "that I can't cry when it matters? I wish it was the other way around. I wish I could cry when it mattered and not when it didn't."
    Instinctively, Trevor reached out to enfold her in his arms, holding her rigid body in a comforting embrace. He said nothing, but only held her. A part of his mind noted that there was no "security blanket" this time, and that same distant piece of his intelligence realized that it was because she was rigidly locked inside herself. Not, he knew, because she didn't trust him with her vulnerability, but because, for her, there had never been an outlet for this kind of emotion.
    "Why you?" he demanded, unconsciously fierce. "Why do you have to do this?"
    In that same toneless, matter-of-fact voice, she said, "Because I'm the strongest. Stronger even than Mother or Daddy. It wouldn't be so bad if—if I could only cry."
    The same dim part of his mind that saw so clearly and made him uncomfortable with what it saw spoke up now softly in his mind. And it sneered at him because he wouldn't recognize the fact that he could be her outlet for this painful, imprisoned emotion. With the best and most loving will in the world, her family couldn't help; she was a woman, and a woman would share the vulnerable part of herself only with the man she gave her heart to. They could see her pain but were helpless to ease it; he could see her pain—and refused to.
    Holding her, feeling the stiffness of her body, Trevor fought a violent inner battle. The wall that stood between them was his, a conscious thing, and he knew now why he couldn't remove it.
    She could read his mind.
    So simple. He was an intelligent