When she woke, the cat had deserted the bed for Roarke’s lap in the sitting area. With the usual morning gibberish muted on-screen, Roarke played with one of his tablets.
She grunted at him, followed morning routine. Coffee, always coffee. Shower. Brain engaged.
Clothes. Sometimes she actually missed the days when she just put on a damn uniform.
But not very much.
Afraid black might still be out, she went for brown trousers and a navy shirt, grabbed a jacket and boots.
When she came out, Galahad had been banished across the room. Roarke had plates covered on the table, and continued to work on his tablet. She caught a glimpse of the screen, and what was clearly a bar backed with a brick wall and a number of shelves. Backless stools in front of the bar, booths, a few high tops, a good-size screen, lights with dark green shades.
It came off simple, uncluttered, and somehow warm.
“Is that Nowhere?”
“It could be.”
She sat next to him, took a closer look. While she watched, he tapped something and added toe-kick lights to the bar, changed the floor to match the shades.
“How did you do that?”
“Which that?”
“All of it.”
“There are programs, darling. I’ve designed a few myself.” He leaned over to kiss her. “What do you think?”
“It looks like a bar. A decent bar.” She lifted the cover from her plate, spotted waffles. “Score!”
She immediately smothered them in butter and syrup.
He couldn’t hold back the wince. “Well now, that should keep you going.”
“Good,” she said over the first bite. “Because I need to have that conversation with Cilla Roe. They could have planned this out together. Revenge is always a good one. And I want to go back to the scene, take a good look at the eyeline from the windows. Maybe one of them, if it’s one of them, kept an eye on the place to make sure the plan worked.”
Happily, she shoveled in more waffle, then stabbed a plump raspberry.
“If not one or both of them, maybe the anonymous mad scientist wanted to document the results of the experiment. It’s worth a look. I want to check on Abner’s memorial. Wouldn’t part of the experiment be the collateral damage? The killer may want to be there. Someone who knew him wouldn’t be out of place.”
Fascinated, Roarke tapped a finger on the side of her head. “Your brain’s been busy in sleep.”
“I guess.” She glanced at the tablet he’d set aside. “Yours, too.”
“But mine’s a great deal more fun.”
“Murder cops make their own fun.” She ate more waffle.
When she finished, she rose to strap on her weapon harness, then reached for the rest of her belt and pocket business.
Roarke lifted an eyebrow as she reached for a handful of credits and cash. “Is that all the money you have?”
She shrugged. “It’s enough.”
“It’s barely enough to buy a cart dog and a bag of crisps.” He stood, pulled a clip out of his pocket, peeled off some bills.
“I don’t want your money.”
He eyed her, saw the flickers of temper; ignored them. “And that would be something you make clear at every opportunity. Regardless, you’re not leaving the house with less in your pocket than a careless teenager might have.”