And now, the only way to make amends was to spend at least ten hours up to her hips in meandering, muttering, miscast phantoms from a thinking person's nightmare. She was going to have to do time at Restcrest. And then she was going to have to face her father and then admit that she was putting him in danger by even asking the questions she needed to ask. She was going to have to face every demon that had sent her screaming from this town. It was enough to make her want to vomit.
And to think that the only reason she'd gotten into this in the first place was because she'd decided it would be better than dealing with Jason.
Jason.
Hell, she hadn't decided what to do about him, either.
Well, Scarlett, she thought, so close to tears she had to leave the room, tomorrow's just come, and you're not ready.
Chapter 15
Murphy had survived other mornings after.
This one was pretty typical except for the fact that he didn't have alcohol mucking it up. He was sore in a thousand places, dizzy if he turned too fast, and moving on a par with an arthritic octogenarian. It didn't make a bit of difference to his stomach, which was as much a tyrant as ever. So when he awoke right on cue at dawn, he only managed to stay in bed another couple of hours before venturing out into Leary's kitchen.
Besides, even the kitchen was better than that back bedroom he'd slept in with its stale smells and sad mementos. Murphy couldn't imagine having to live in this house with all its discarded history. He couldn't imagine Timmie Leary moving through it as if it all didn't exist. But then Timmie Leary was a series of contradictions that intrigued an old newsman almost as much as that red-and-green tattoo on her right thigh.
The outside of her thigh, just at panty line, where nobody but a beaten-up drunk lying on the floor could have seen it.
Damn tattoo. Murphy hadn't been actively libidinous in years. It wasn't worth the effort. But he'd dreamed of that tattoo at least twice during the night, even knowing perfectly well it wouldn't do him any good. Timmie Leary didn't want to come within spitting distance of him, and in his more cognizant moments, Murphy couldn't agree more.
If only he hadn't seen the tattoo.
"That's disgusting," he heard behind him.
Murphy probably turned too fast, but then guilt will do that. He grabbed the edge of the old gas stove for balance when the room spun and he saw two or three Learys standing in the doorway in jeans, Marvin the Martian sweatshirt, and bare feet.
His first instinct was that she'd overheard his more objectionable thoughts. Not quite. Her focus was on the eggs that were spitting in her frying pan on the stove.
"Like some?" he asked with wry amusement.
Timmie's smile was not pretty. "I hope you'll be sufficiently warned if I just tell you that not even coffee helps me at this hour of the morning."
He didn't even bother to smile. Just turned back to the stove, picked up the Rabid Nurse coffee mug he'd been drinking his own coffee from, and flipped his eggs.
"Make yourself at home," she said and padded in.
From the looks of her, Timmie hadn't slept any more than Murphy had. Her eyes were sunken again, and her hands trembled. And he was positive she didn't want him to notice. So he didn't.
"I left a dollar on the refrigerator," he said. "Sorry to be so presumptive, but I'm always up long before this."
Timmie groaned. "A day person."
Murphy shook his head, sipping coffee and nudging eggs. "Not by choice. I get up to run every morning. Penance for my sins."
"Which are undoubtedly numerous. Too bad you couldn't jog last night, huh, Murphy?"
He caught the very dry humor in her voice and turned around, properly chagrined. "Considering what mayhem you had the chance to wreak after that... unfortunate slip of the tongue, I'd like to say what a lady you are for not considering it."
She poured herself some coffee and took a good slug of it. "I've been propositioned by more than one concussion victim in my time," she said with a tired smile.
"Which I hope means you won't be bringing me up on charges."
She allowed a brief flicker of attraction to spark those huge blue eyes, then purposefully locked it away again. "It means that if you don't ever mention the rose, I won't mention the meaningless sex."
Murphy sighed. "Used to be, I'd at least get the meaningless sex before I couldn't talk about it."
"Times are tough all round these days."
He gave up and went back to his eggs, which were crisping around the edges from inattention. Timmie reached into a cabinet and pulled out a chipped Melmac plate for his eggs and a bottle of generic acetaminophen for his headache.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome. You dizzy or seeing double?"
Murphy dished up his eggs and shut off the gas. "Not much. How do I look to the trained eye?"
She squinted hard. "Like a train wreck trying to pass itself off as performance art. Good thing Halloween's today. You'll fit right in. But the scars will be minimal."
"You guys do good work."
Timmie eased her jeaned bottom clown in one of the three mismatched Naugahyde chairs that surrounded the metal table. "Of course we do. We're the wave of Memorial's future."
"I thought that was Restcrest," Murphy said, gingerly sitting himself down across from her.
Timmie's laugh sounded awfully fatalistic. "Not after we get through with it."
Murphy heard every nuance in that statement and forgot the eggs he'd been anticipating since dawn. "Can I ask a question?"
"As long as it isn't about sex."
"Aren't you worried?"
Timmie raised eyebrows at him. "Worried about what?" she retorted, suddenly cautious. "Crime on the streets? The rising cost of medical care? The chance of contracting the ebola virus?"
"How this whole escapade is going to affect your father. I know what he means to you, Leary. You're putting him in a pretty vulnerable spot."
Murphy could see her jaw working as if she were chewing up her words before she spat them out. He saw how tight her eyes were and wondered at every little secret he didn't know.
"What brought this up?" she asked.
"His room. Sleep isn't very productive the first night after a crack on the head, and I didn't have anything to smoke. So I got to spend a lot of time looking at memorabilia." He retreated to his eggs as he spoke, the residue from those long, dark hours a little too fresh. "Raymond may be an android, but he's right. Your dad is something special, even only working on three cylinders. Raymond told me how he used to watch your dad lead you down the street singing to you when you were a little girl. Tough to get an image like that out of a person's head. Tougher to imagine that that guy could end up as bait."
She sucked in a breath that hissed in the quiet kitchen like a flaring match. "How do we know he isn't in danger already unless we find the murderer?" she asked carefully.
"Then why leave your father there at all?"
Murphy couldn't imagine her going any more rigid without just shattering. "The benefits outweigh the risks."
"You're sure about that."