Please, God. Not again.

Memphis had been stuck in the car for over an hour, trying to get onto the A1. The trains were stopped. The planes were grounded. The only hope he had was driving, and he was still nearly three hours away. He couldn’t believe the snow. It was coming down harder than he’d seen in years.

All he knew was he had to get to Taylor, as quickly as possible.

Damn that woman. She hadn’t seemed that bad to him. Delicate, certainly. Not being able to speak, being forced away from hearth and work, into the clutches of the big bad wolf…yes, she’d been a bit vulnerable. But not crazy. But she was used to acting strong, to keeping people at arm’s length. But from what Trixie said, she was well past that. She’d gone straight to hallucinations and crying in her room. Acting decidedly unlike the Taylor Jackson he knew.

Acting like Evan, before she died.

Please, God. Not again.

The car in front of him inched forward. He thought he would scream if they didn’t start to move.

How could this be happening again?

Evan was never a strong woman. And he’d been attracted to her like a moth to the flame, his chivalrous streak overwhelmed. He remembered the night he met her. At Oxford, at the Playhouse. Tryouts for Hamlet. They’d sat together and shared a cigarette, then a finger of scotch, for courage. He was shocked at how nervous he felt. He went on and did his lines, was well received. But Evan—Evan became her role. She captivated. Drew a standing ovation from the group of drama students who were casting the roles.

She’d been humoring him. She was a fine actress. It was only on the stage that she left behind her fears, her concerns.

He’d been cast as Laertes. Evan was, of course, Ophelia.

If he’d only known then. If he’d seen it in her eyes. That terrible foreshadowing of her eventual end.

They’d kept the truth within the family. The media had been held at bay.

He still had the note she’d left. He wanted to burn it, but it had been Trixie who stopped him.

“Someday, you’ll need this. Put it away and forget about it until then.”

He thought they’d arrested Evan’s psychosis. Maddee had worked with her. They brought in a specialist, one trained to deal with nervous disorders. But nothing worked.

And then she’d fallen pregnant.

And they’d all been so very thrilled.

And she improved, dramatically. Became the old Evan.

He’d coddled her. They’d had an idyllic few months in London, nesting in the Chelsea flat.

Then he’d taken her to the castle to let his parents dote on her. He’d gone back to London to work. That had been the mistake, in the end. Her isolation brought the old fears back to the surface. She started seeing things. Losing weight. Accusing him of the most despicable acts. She was beyond his reach.

He hadn’t known what else to do. They’d been considering committal when she snuck the keys to his car and crept away, found her way to Dulsie Bridge.

And drove the car off the edge.

The idea of her screams invaded his head. He couldn’t see this happen again.

Traffic was moving. Slowly. But moving.

Taylor might feel it was a disloyalty, but he’d deal with that later. It was time for him to call Maddee.

He looked at his mobile, saw the red light flashing. A message. He put it on speaker.

Speak of the devil.

“Memphis, it’s Maddee. Your girl here has had quite a psychotic break. I’m trying to find a way to sedate her, but she’s locked in her room. I’ll—“

The phone cut off. His battery, damn it all.

It was happening again.

What had he done?