Murphy's Law

“Remember what you told me before? About Billy?”

She stiffened. “I thought we were going to die when I told you about that.”

“A technicality. We didn't. Just like I said, repeatedly as I recall, that we wouldn't,” he added pointedly. “And the fact remains that you did tel

l me.”

She tried to lift her chin from his grasp. His hand turned inward, his fingers gently vising her jaw. The pulse in her throat hammered against the back of his hand. She didn't ask him to continue, mostly because she didn't want him to.

“It wasn't your fault,” he said. He angled his head until they were so close the tips of their noses brushed. His breath whispered like hot puffs of fire over her mouth and chin. “You've known that all along, haven't you?”

She didn't answer. What could she say? That he was right? Knowing it didn't erase the sharp stab of guilt she felt whenever she thought about Billy Meyers. Maybe she should tell Garrett that she was afraid to keep her job, afraid the same thing would happen again, to another child? Only next time the ending might be even worse.

When it came right down to it, the problem was, she no longer trusted her own judgement. That was the crux of it. She was afraid to trust it, afraid it would let her down again, afraid that next time an innocent life would be lost because of her own foolish mistake.

No, she couldn't tell him any of that. She was having a hard enough time admitting it to herself, never mind admitting it to anyone else. Just the thought terrified her.

Leaning forward, he closed the scant space separating them. His lips feathered over her mouth, his kiss soft and fleeting, somehow more reassuring than words. The contact was brief; it came and went in a blink. Yet Murphy had a feeling the warm, quivering repercussions of it would span a lifetime.

“You know,” he said, easing back to look at her, “if you decide to change careers, you can always look into teaching school. God knows you've got the voice for it.” With that simple observation, he severed the tension between them.

“I was thinking about going into screenwriting. I could probably write a bad-B movie that would knock your socks off.” Murphy grinned. She couldn't help it. Until her gaze shifted to his bandaged leg, and her grin evaporated. “Then again, after tonight, I guess I could probably teach courses in first aide.”

“I don't know if I'd go that far.” He tapped the tip of her nose with his index finger. Then, as though that contact was too platonic for his tastes, he leaned forward and kissed her there instead. “You get squeamish at the sight of blood.”

“A technicality,” she said, unable to resist tossing his own words back at him as she smiled. Her grip on the duffel bag tightened.

The sound of someone clearing his throat snagged both their attention.

Glancing up, Murphy saw Stephen framed in the doorway. The man was in his mid-twenties, tall and paunchy, with dark hair that was already thinning and cheeks that were so red they looked perpetually windburned. His brown eyes were narrow but kind, his smile as warm as summer rain. He wore a thick blue parka with fur-trimmed hood. Beneath was a pair of bib-overalls, and beneath that a red plaid shirt that looked right at home on his robust body.

“You ready to go ma'am?” Stephen said to Murphy, after nodding politely to Garrett.

Murphy almost said no, until she realized she really had no legitimate excuse to linger. She stood. “Good luck in Bangor,” she said, glancing down at Garrett. Was it wishful thinking on her part, or did he look as reluctant to see her go as she felt to be going? “I'm sure everything will be fine.”

He shrugged as though that concern wasn't a priority at the moment. She chalked his reaction up the pain killer racing through his bloodstream.

“Yeah, I'm sure you're right,” he said.

Clutching the duffel bag beneath her arm, Murphy zipped her coat. The duffel bag. Ah, that reminded her of something. She nodded to the green nylon bag, and said to Garrett, “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

“Yup.”

“Okay. I just wanted to double check.” She tucked her hands deeply inside her coat pockets. During the long drive into Greenville, she'd mentally practiced at least a dozen ways to say goodbye to Garrett. Odd, but, now that the moment was at hand, she was at a loss for words. “I guess this is goodbye.”

“For now.” He glanced meaningfully at the duffel bag. “I'll swing by to pick it up as soon as I'm on my feet again…er, so to speak.”

“Tom only loaned me his house for the week. I'll be heading back to Providence on Thursday. Should I stop by the hospital and drop it"—she gestured to the duffel bag, snuggled protectively beneath her arm—"off on my way?”

“No.”

“Okay. Why don't you give me your address and I'll mail it to you?”

“I don't want you to do that, either.”

No, of course he wouldn't, Murphy chided herself belatedly. There was a lot of money and jewelry in that bag; no one in their right mind would entrust it's care to the U.S. Snail Service, as her secretary at DCYF had “affectionately” dubbed the Providence Post Office. She frowned. “Then how will you get it back?”

“I'll come for it.”