Page 66 of The Wolves Come at Night
Taylor dropped O’Roarke, now significantly more impressed with him, and headed across town to see if she could talk Detective Renn McKenzie into interrupting his paternity leave to back up Marcus on the new graveyard case. She wove her way through the city, took Granny White Pike to 12 South, marveling, as she always seemed to do now driving in Nashville, at how much it had changed. She used to drive up this road when she was a teen, off to do naughty things after her curfew in the park by Lipscomb University. It was a quiet place then, but now, the streets were jam-packed with houses, many of the original cottages torn down in favor of monstrous modern multilevel homes.
Hugh and Renn had been married for a year now, after the chaos that created their first meeting—Hugh’s familial home had been chosen as a crime scene for a freak of a killer named Gavin Adler, aka The Conductor. They’d been discreet, but the connection between them was obvious to everyone on the case. Hugh was a hugely successful Hollywood script doctor—interesting, charming, creative, handsome—and thankfully, not involved in the crime, but a target of the killer himself. Renn was a stellar detective, one who’d surprised Taylor with his nuance over the years. Taylor thought they were great together.
Hugh, understandably, couldn’t continue living in a home that had been desecrated by a murder, even one that had been in his family for years, so they’d taken all the exquisite art and books and moved to a slightly less charming but more family-friendly and spacious home near the university.
Taylor pulled up to the new Tudor, unable to stop the grin that split her face. A pink sign in the extremely green front yard welcomed a baby girl to the family. Staked in the grass next to it was a blue sign welcoming a baby boy.
Twins.
Taylor clambered from her truck and knocked. Renn answered, a finger to his lips.
“Come on in,” he whispered. “We just got them down.”
“Renn?” Hugh called loudly from the recesses of the house. “Who is it?”
On cue, there was a squawk, then a lusty cry. Renn sighed happily, shaking his head in mock disgust. “Hugh insists that we run the vacuum and play music and make all kinds of noise so they will be less anxious, but guess what that accomplishes?”
“No one’s had any sleep this week?”
He hit the side of his nose. “Got it in one.”
He noticed the bottle of wine in her hands, and the gaily striped bag stuffed full of gifts, overflowing with tissue paper. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“Yes, I did. I don’t have any babies to spoil anymore.”
As she said it, a wellspring of sadness ran up the back of her throat, seizing the rest of her words. She hadn’t indulged a child since Sam’s twins. Renn, knowing what she was thinking, folded her into a hug. He didn’t ask; he didn’t need to. He simply held her until she nodded, once, twice.
“Wow. I’m getting weak in my dotage.”
“You’re human, Taylor. Sucks, but it’s true.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Before we go through, I have an ulterior motive. I hate to tell you this, but we need you. We’ve discovered a grave near Radnor Lake, and there are four women in it who need names.”
“You’re kidding? That’s awful.”
“I know you’re on paternity leave. Marcus is running it, and normally I wouldn’t ask—”
He held up a hand. “Of course I’ll help. Don’t tell Hugh, though. Let me handle him. He might panic at the idea of being here alone. Twins.” He laughed softly. “Who would have thought. Ready to meet them?” he said.
“Yes.” She saluted. “Lead me to the progeny.”
She followed him through the exquisitely decorated living room to a bright and sunny den stuffed full—a single-piece curved couch, two cradles, two cribs, and countless piles of stuff took all the available floor space. It looked like a pink and blue confetti bomb had gone off.
Hugh had both babies in his lap, staring at them like they were perfect diamonds pulled directly from the earth. He looked up at Renn, smiled, then grinned at Taylor.
“People will think I’m their grandfather.”
“They already think you’re my dad,” Renn said, laughing, and Taylor’s mouth dropped open.
“No! Tell me.”
She settled on the couch, yanked off her boots, and drew her legs up under her.
“Oh, yeah. Went to dinner a couple of weeks ago and the hostess—who was ten, I might add—asked if my dad and I wanted to sit at the bar or in the dining room. I thought Hugh might stroke out on the spot.”
“I was having a bad hair day,” he said, and they all burst into gales of laughter. Hugh’s hair, while thick and full, was a vibrant, snowy white, and at first glance made him look older than he was. Second glance, however, confirmed that he wasn’t ready for Social Security just yet. Though he was a full thirteen years older than his husband, he hardly looked like Renn could be his son.
“You’re the perfect age for babies,” Taylor assured him. “You have just the right seasoning not to get spooked when one of them does something dumb.”
