Most of my body weight had drained into my hands and feet. The only thing keeping me awake was the persistent pain in my jaw and my side.
Miranda must've been operating on even less sleep than I was. She sat with her upper body listing back and forth, like she was correcting her balance on a ship. She'd stopped crying a long time ago but her eyes were teary.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I just couldn't believe about Elgin. He and his wife—she's a cousin to Ben French, my drummer. They came to some of my father's parties. Elgin seemed like a gentleman."
"A gentleman," I said. "Like Tilden Sheckly."
It came out harsher than I intended.
Miranda leaned back until her shoulders touched the wall. She stared across the street at the dark turrets of the Koehler Mansion. "And if I hadn't been there?"
"It's lucky for me you were. Frank and Elgin wanted to give me something to worry about besides Tilden Sheckly's business."
She circled her arms around her knees. She'd taken off her boots in the VW and now her toes stuck out from beneath the folds of her denim skirt. She dug them in, over and over, like she was trying to gather up more of the hardwood porch.
"Sheck was talking to me tonight," she said. "Before all that mess with Allison. He asked me about moving out to the mansion."
"What?"
She put her head back and closed her eyes. "He lives in this old hunting lodge out behind the Paintbrush—got about six million rooms in it. Sheck offered me a whole wing to myself and free time at the studio. Ain't nothing like Silo in Austin, but still.
Sheck said I'd be closer to the action that way."
"Uhhuh."
She opened her eyes and kicked me lightly on the shin. "It's not what you think. It would be like an artist colony."
She looked at me uncertainly, like she was hoping against hope that I'd agree. An artist colony, conveniently down the hall from Tilden's bedroom, I bet.
Miranda hadn't moved her bare foot. It still rested against my leg. Maybe she was just too tired to notice.
"Your father would disapprove," I speculated.
But my mind wasn't really on what I was saying anymore. I was looking at Miranda, trying to remember the photograph of her I'd seen in Milo's office five days ago. I was trying to superimpose that image, to see if I could remember why I'd found it so hard to believe that Tilden Sheckly would want to own her.
"Les would discourage me, too," she added. "If Les was around."
I saw what she wanted me to say. I tried to sound as convincing as I could. "Les believed in your career, Miranda. He'd've been foolish not to. If he got himself in trouble with Sheck, it was his doing. Not yours."
Miranda examined my face. She relaxed her shoulders a little. "I just get worried. I'll be glad when this business is decided one way or the other."
"I can understand that. Don't do it."
"Don't do what?"
"Move into Sheckly's place. You should move out of your father's and get something of your own, Miranda. But not Sheckly's house."
She looked at me differently then, not tired, not really asking me any question you could put into words. Her foot was still resting on my leg.
I cleared my throat. "Been a long day. You play tomorrow night?"
"At the Paintbrush. Every Saturday we open for the headliner."
"Well—"
I stood to go. Miranda offered me her hand.
I pulled her up but she didn't let go of my hand. We walked to the door, where Miranda retrieved a spare key from behind the mailbox on the wall.
When she opened the door of the agency the smells of freon and fresh flowers seeped out, leftovers from a hot day.
She turned toward me and smiled. "Good night?"
"Yeah." My voice came out ragged.
I wanted to let go of Miranda's hand so she wouldn't realize mine was shaking a little.
She didn't let me.
She moistened her lips. "Maybe—it's sort of uncomfortable, being alone here tonight."
Several different voices were hissing in my ears, Erainya Manos and Milo Chavez and Sam Barrera and a bunch of others—all talking about professional detachment and client loyalty and warning me not to start things I'd regret. Miranda kept smiling and the voices kept getting farther away. With the little reservation I could muster I tried to think of something to say, something polite and witty by way of declining. Instead I mumbled, "Maybe I could just—"