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If he’d moved just a little faster, if he’d jumped the other way. If Halloway hadn’t fired so close and so clean.
If, if, if.
He knew what his chances of coming back were now. Down to thirty-percent and falling.
He was fucked, and everyone knew it. They didn’t have to say it. He could hear them thinking it.
Especially Peabody.
He could practically hear her thinking it in her sleep.
He turned his head, and could see the outline of her in the dark, in the bed beside him.
He thought of the way she’d chattered away—about the job, the case, the kid Jamie, about a thousand things to avoid any gaps of silence while she’d helped him get undressed for the night.
Christ, he couldn’t even unbutton his own pants.
Note to self, he thought sourly. Zippers, Velcro, and tipcot fasteners
only in the future.
He’d deal with it. You ran with the data you got. But he’d be damned if she was going to be stuck with him.
He gripped the bedpost with his good hand, tried to lever himself up.
She stirred, shifted, and her voice came out of the dark, too clear for her to have been sleeping.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just want to get up. I’ve got it.”
“I’ll give you a hand. Lights on, ten percent.”
“I said I’ve got it, Peabody.”
But she was already out of bed, coming around to his side. “Bet you gotta pee. You and Jamie must’ve sucked down a gallon of milk each with that cake. I could’ve told you—”
“Go back to bed.”
“Can’t sleep anyway. I keep thinking about the case.” Her movements were as brisk and practical as her tone as she scooted him up, lifted, shifted, and maneuvered him into his chair. “You have to figure Dallas and Roarke are working on something or they’d have—”
“Sit down.”
“I’m going to get some water.”
“Sit down, Peabody.”
“Sure, okay.” She kept the half-smile on her face as she sat on the side of the bed facing him. Was it too much? she wondered. Not enough? Her muscles were so knotted it felt like a troop of Youth Scouts had been practicing for a merit badge with them.
He looked so tired, she thought. So horribly, horribly frail somehow.
“This isn’t going to work. We’re not going to work.”
“That’s a stupid thing to be talking about at three in the morning.” She started to get up, but he laid his good hand on her knee.
She was wearing a bright red nightshirt, and her toes were painted the same shade. Her hair was messy, her mouth grim.
And McNab realized Roarke had been right in something he’d said once. He was in love with her. That meant he had to do this right.
