“Sleep. Good work, Peabody.”
“Thanks.”
He got her down to the garage, into the car. Before he’d pulled out, she was getting a head start on that sleep.
Epilogue
She slept for twelve hours, woke starving and ate like a horse. Because it ached enough—and Roarke wouldn’t take no—she agreed to a soaking treatment, more wanding, the ice patches.
She snuck into her home office long enough to read Whitney’s work. Had to admit he did the job well. Maybe she wanted to fiddle, just a little, but she had a feeling the commander would notice.
And maybe kick her ass.
Sprawled on the sofa with Roarke, she dropped off again while watching a vid, slept straight through—dreamless—until nearly noon.
She swam, dozed, snuck in a quick check with Reo. Both prisoners would get their psych evals, their sentencing hearings—and the PA’s office expressed full confidence Iler would be remanded to an on-planet maximum security
prison, while Silverman would make Omega his new home.
Eighteen consecutive life sentences.
Satisfied with that, Eve took a walk around the grounds with Roarke. Then ate a huge bowl of spaghetti and meatballs.
Submitted to more ice patches.
Breathed a sigh of relief on Sunday when Roarke finally pronounced, “You’ll do.”
She did well enough to indulge in a fairly energetic bout of sex.
And felt in tune enough to bitch when he settled her down in front of the screen.
“Why do we have to watch all this pregame stuff?”
“Because I’m not going to miss watching our great good friends on the red carpet of the Oscars. You’ve got enough popcorn to give you solace.”
Maybe.
She didn’t see the point in strutting around in fancy duds, striking poses on some swatch of red while entertainment reporters in more fancy duds cooed and giggled and asked lame questions.
“There’s our Peabody.”
“What?” She looked up, focused on the screen.
Peabody—Jesus—in some frothy pink (naturally) number that bared good, strong shoulders and sparkled in the sunlight.
“How come it’s daytime? It’s nighttime.”
“Rotation of the planet, darling Eve. It’s still about rotation.”
“Right. She looks good.”
Her hair all fluffy and curly.
“Where the hell did she get those rocks she’s wearing?”
“On loan—from you. McNab looks good as well.”
Duded up, she noted, in a dark blue tux—made McNab-ish with a plaid vest, a screaming red bow tie.