14 - J. T. Ellison [73]
All of this just felt so wrong—she should be at work, should be combing through files, doing everything in her power to stop two killers, one old, one new. Yet here she was, sitting in front of a spa, looking forward to getting a massage, to spending some time away from the cases. The guilt of wanting to be disengaged from it all was bitter in the back of her mouth.
She looked at herself in the rearview mirror. What was she supposed to do? Last night she’d committed not to cancel the wedding, then sealed that promise. Baldwin was right. She wasn’t the only cop on the force. They could, would catch the killer. If she were around when it happened, fantastic. If not, the crew would have her never-ending thanks.
Cases don’t resolve themselves in a week. She kept that mantra running through her head as she redid her ponytail, turned off the truck and went into the spa.
It was 8:00 a.m., and she yawned. She could have slept in, skipped the whole spa day. But Sam would have killed her. “You haven’t had your nails done in months, Taylor,” she’d say. “Lighten up and enjoy yourself for once.” She took a sip of her latte, hoping the caffeine would kick in soon and help her wake up. She was exhausted. Maybe Sam was right, a day of pampering couldn’t be all bad.
She checked in with a young Vietnamese girl, then took a seat, fiddled with a brochure on micro dermabrasion. It looked like it hurt.
Thirty hours from now, she would be a married woman. Looking at the sheet of paper in front of her, she laughed. She’d been doodling while she waited for her appointment to start, and she felt like a teenager when she saw the initials intertwined within a heart that she’d unconsciously drawn. TEJ + JWB = TLA. True Love Always. Oh, God.
She wondered how long this was going to take, then mentally chastised herself. Day off, day off, day off. She kept repeating the words until Sam blew in the door. Wearing sweats and flip-flops, dragging a large Birkin bag that was stuffed with God knew what, she barked a brief hello in Vietnamese to the shop owner, then enfolded Taylor in a rib-cracking hug. Her nose was cold against Taylor’s cheek.
“Morning, sugar! I am so frickin’ excited. Are you not just about to die? It’s tomorrow, finally. Seriously, T, you’re getting married tomorrow! I feel like we’ve been planning this for months.”
“That would be because you’ve been planning this for months. My God, woman, aren’t you freezing? Flip-flops in a blizzard?” Taylor looked down at her own practically covered feet, ensconced in her worn pair of calf-high Uggs.
“Taylor,” Sam admonished, ignoring the gibe. “C’mon, sweetie. This is going to be a simple, elegant wedding. Nothing fancy, no doves or horse-drawn carriages. It’s going to be exactly what you’ve always wanted. It’s very you.”
Taylor rolled her eyes at her best friend. When they were growing up, back when they still had some semblance of innocence to them, they’d planned their weddings. They’d picked their fantasy grooms out of magazines, assembled frilly, doily-packed scrapbooks with all the appropriate wedding accoutrements. They giggled and dreamed and grew starry-eyed at the thought of true love.
As she grew older, those fantasies left her. The whole idea of a fairy-tale wedding seemed a bit absurd, so frivolous. But she was committed now. No turning back. No white-sand beach at sunset or Elvis impersonator in Vegas. No, she’d agreed to the whole church thing. Full circle for her. She’d started out wanting that, decided it wasn’t for her, and was now reaping what she’d sown all those years ago.
At least after last night, her cold feet were strictly from the weather.
Sam was eyeing her patiently,