Thin Air Page 0,59

for a mobile home community.

As trailer parks went, it tried to rise above the cliches.

There were a few struggling bushes, some attempt at landscaping at the front entrance. Not much clutter. The trailers were mostly in decent shape, although a few showed the ravages of time and weather. There were a couple of retirees walking small, fat dogs along the roadside, and one of them waved. Eamon waved back.

"I hate this place," Sarah said. She sounded like she meant it.

"It's temporary, Sarah. You know that." Eamon must have been tired of explaining it; his tone was more than a little sharp. "Just until the funds come through on the international transfer."

"Meanwhile, we're living in a trailer park. With crack-heads! I used to live in the same zip code with Mel Gibson, for God's sake!" I wondered if the trailer park had its fringe benefits for her, like being a good place to score drugs. Heroin? Meth? Coke? Something that made her pupils so inordinately wide. Eamon seemed sober as a judge, though, so it wasn't likely he was the one supplying her habits. I wasn't sure he even knew, which made me think that he was willfully blind to her problems. Or he knew, and he'd given up trying to fix her.

"It's only temporary," Eamon said again. "I'm sorry, love; I know it's not what you're used to. Things will get better. You'll bear with me, won't you?"

There was a kind of wistful longing in his voice, and Sarah softened. She stretched out a hand toward him, and he took it and held it. He had amazing hands-long, elegant, beautifully cared for. His fingers overlapped hers by inches. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean it that way. Of course I'll put up with whatever I have to for us to be together." She threw me a look in the rearview mirror. A defiant one. "No matter what other people think."

I'd thought Eamon was bad for her? Wow. I really hadn't had a clue about my sister if I'd thought that a slick English guy who would put up with her bullshit was a bad deal for her. "Other people meaning me?" I asked, and let a little of my frustration out. Sarah glared.

"Of course, meaning you," she snapped. "What other controlling, know-it-all relative do I have in the backseat? Is Mom in your pocket?"

Eamon pulled the car to a stop before I could think of a suitably acid reply to any of that. Probably for the best. The sedan wasn't big enough for a real girl fight, and the bloodstains would never come out of the upholstery.

"Home sweet home," he said with just the right touch of irony. "Sorry, I've given the staff the day off. Do forgive the mess."

It was a trailer. Not a very big one-not one of the kingly double-wides, like the one across the road. And it was dented, faded, and run-down. There were some cheerful window boxes, but they were full of dead plants; what a shock. I couldn't see Sarah as the getting-her-hands-dirty gardener. Apart from the bold landscaping choice of a chain-link fence around some struggling, sun-blasted grass, there wasn't much to recommend the place.

"Nice," I said noncommittally, and got out to follow Eamon toward the aluminum Taj Mahal.

It wasn't any better on the inside, although it was darker. The smell was a little strange-a combination of unwashed towels and old fried fish, with a little stale cat litter thrown in-and as I blinked to adjust my eyes I saw that the place must have been bought fully furnished. Matted, ancient gold shag carpet. Heavy, dark furniture that had gone out of style twenty years ago, at least. Clunky, vegetable-colored appliances in the small kitchen. There were dips in the carpet that I suspected meant rotting floors.

Still, they'd made an attempt. The place was mostly clean, and it was also mostly impersonal, with only a few personal items-Sarah's-in view. A trashy candy-colored book on the coffee table, facedown. A wineglass with some sticky residue in the bottom next to it. A fleece robe flung over one end of the couch, and I hoped it didn't belong to Eamon, because pale pink wasn't really his color.

Eamon swept the place with a look, tossed his keys on the counter, and turned to face me. It was my first good look at him, and I wasn't disappointed. My sister did have good taste in exteriors, at least. He wasn't gorgeous, but he was nice-looking, with