Текст книги "Where All the Dead Lie"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Taylor shivered. She didn’t believe in ghosts. But the thought that the feeling she’d just had was caused by the otherworld was all too real. She was still overwhelmingly chilly, and suddenly on edge. She pulled her hands from his, grabbed her notebook.

Don’t mock me. It’s not funny.

Memphis waited a moment, then gently took her left hand back, rubbed it between his to warm them.

“I’m not mocking you, dearest. Dulsie Castle is haunted. Several times over.”

Please. It is not haunted. You’re just trying to scare me.

“Not at all. It is haunted, just like most of the castles in the Highlands. Battles were fought over these lands, brother against brother. Enemies tried to plunder the castles for their contents. Most were built on sorrow and death, vaults for the overlord’s treasures. With all that enmity, it’s not at all unusual to have multiple ghosts wandering about.”

Come on. That’s silly.

“Taylor, it’s not silly at all. People pay good money to stay at haunted castles. That’s why we opened the attics for Samhain. Let the public in, have a few delicious ghost stories at the ready. One of our best is the Lady in Red.”

Okay. I’ll bite. Tell me.

Memphis sat back into the cushions. “According to my family lore, she’s the ghost of Lady Isabella Bruce, a relation of good King Robert, sold as a child bride to Colin Highsmythe, the fourth Earl of Dulsie. He was forty-eight, widowed, with seven bairns, some of which were older than Isabella. She was fourteen, ripe as a peach, headstrong and unwilling to marry such a disgustingly old creature. She was overruled, of course. It was an advantageous match. Her father recovered most of the lands he’d lost to Longshanks—you’d know him as Edward the First—when Scotland and England were at war in the 1300s.”

He settled in closer to her, put his arm around her shoulder. They were touching now, rib to rib. She let him. She was still cold. And despite her interest in Memphis’s history, ghost stories weren’t her thing.

“She moved to the castle, and they married in a ceremony befitting a queen. Colin doted on her like she was a doll, buying her anything she wanted, throwing the most lavish of parties in her honor. He, being an honorable sort who disliked the idea of bedding a child, promised the girl they could wait until her sixteenth birthday.”

Taylor could see the woman-child, promised off, unwilling to devalue herself for the sake of her parents and their ever-amassing fortunes. She liked Isabella immediately.

“But the stupid girl played Colin for a fool. She had an affair with the youngest of the Highsmythe sons at the time, the dashing Oliver, and of course got with child. She hid it for as long as she could, but Colin eventually found out. He had Oliver killed, locked Isabella up in the tower above us for the rest of her confinement. When she had the baby, he took it away and murdered it as well. Then he bedded Isabella as many times as it took to plant his own seed in her belly.”

That’s hideous!

“Quite. As you can imagine, Isabella was terribly distraught. She’d lost her lover, her child by him, and all the freedom she’d been accustomed to, for Colin kept her in the tower and would allow her no visitors. She was subjected to what amounted to no more than rape on a regular basis. So she hatched a plan. She figured if she could get Colin out of the way, she could have everything back the way it was. She’d find a new lover to mend her broken heart, would dispose of the child she was carrying. She planned to leave it out in the wild, let the faeries take it for their own.”

Faeries?

“Oh, yes,” Memphis replied. “Faeries all over the land round here. The auld folk. You’re in the Scottish Highlands, remember. We live for myth.”

He brushed a stray hair back from her forehead, gently, then continued.

“Anyway, the lady Isabella kept back a knife from one of her meals, and when Colin came for his nightly assignation, she waited until he was in the throes of passion and stabbed him. Did a good job of it, too. He, mortally wounded, fought with her for the knife, managed to get it away from her and cut her throat, but he was too weak to injure her properly. He died; she lived. But the earl, ever prescient and distrustful of his child bride, had left strict instructions in his will that if anything were to happen to him before the child was born, the doctor was to take it by force from her womb.”

Held a grudge, did he?

“Oh, yes. We Highsmythes are known for it.” He said it lightly, or attempted to. She wondered who had been fool enough to cross Memphis in the past.

“The doctor kept Isabella alive long enough to give birth. She carried twins, two boys. It’s said she traced an O in blood on the forehead of the first one, who was named Oliver, after her lover, the child’s dead uncle. She died before naming the second, so the family took it upon themselves to call him Colin. As you can imagine, theirs was a contentious life.”

Memphis was staring into the fire now. “Young Oliver ended up with the title, oddly enough. Through battles and changes of allegiance and illnesses, the elder Colin’s sons from his first marriage died soon after their father. Isabella’s son, Oliver, firstborn of the twins, truly in the prime of his life, was legally heir.

“He banished his brother from the area, sent him to England, to Bristol, to the Highsmythe properties there. Where he would be well out of the way. Young Colin worked as a cleric, then rose in the Church’s esteem until eventually becoming a very powerful bishop. He made quite a name for himself.

“So the family was permanently split, half propagating in Southern England, the rest of us in the North. I’m directly descended from Isabella and Oliver the younger, by the way. And as such, the legend says that the first son, the Dulsie heir, is the only one who can see Isabella. She appears in the night to impart great wisdom, so we’re told.”

Taylor knew she was staring at him. What a creepy, odd story.

Do you see her?

“Do I see Isabella?” Memphis flexed his hand a few times, balling the strong fingers into a fist, then stared into the fire. He took his arm from around her shoulders. His tone changed, no longer imparting a delicious ghost story, now more subdued.

“Well, I can’t rightly say. May have done a few times, especially when I was a boy. She’s supposed to be much more partial to young boys. Once they pass the age of twenty, which was Oliver’s age when he died, she loses interest. But I’ve definitely seen something that could be her, many times. More of a feeling, really, that chill in the air, the sense that someone’s watching, an awareness of the color red. Almost like having a bout of synesthesia. I’ve gotten used to it now.”

He was holding back, she could tell.

What is it? What’s the matter?

He met her eyes then. “I can’t help but wonder, if Evan had carried to term, whether my son would have seen Isabella.”

Oh, God. Taylor felt terrible, she’d forgotten. It was easy to; Memphis rarely spoke of Evan, and even more rarely mentioned the child she’d been carrying when she died.

“Another dead Highsmythe bride.”

He played with Taylor’s engagement ring. After a second, she instinctively pulled her hand away. It felt profane to have Memphis touching the physical expression of Baldwin’s love. He didn’t seem to notice.

“I never got to see her, you know. After the accident. Father wouldn’t let me. He said it would be a very bad idea indeed. She’d gone through the windscreen, was cut to ribbons. He thought I would carry the image with me forever. Though honestly, I can’t comprehend it could have been any worse than what my imagination conjures up, late at night.”

That she understood.

You’re right. I tell victims’ families the same thing, but I’d want to know. I’d want to see. The mind can play terrible tricks.

“That it can.”

He was lost to her, there in the room physically, but mentally in another world, another time. Grief did that to a person, snuck up on cat’s feet when you were most unawares. He must have realized, because he cleared his throat and looked at her.

“We buried them on the estate, you know. Together, of course. In the graveyard up by the kirk. It broke my heart. I don’t know which was worse, losing her, or never having a chance to see him grow up.”

Oh, Memphis. I’m so sorry. It’s just not fair.

They sat quietly for a few minutes, companionable in their silence. Taylor couldn’t help but think of Sam, and the child she’d lost. Of her face when Taylor found her, bloodied and tied, the sheer agony of what had happened etched in eloquence across her features. She sighed. Baldwin had lost a child as well, though she was having a hard time equating his loss with Sam’s, or Memphis’s. His child was most likely still alive. Regardless, they were all surrounded by too much sadness.

Memphis finally roused himself. “I’m sorry. I’ve gone and properly cocked up our lovely evening.”

She sought to distract him, and herself.

No, it’s fine. Tell me more. Why is Isabella called the Lady in Red?

He met her eyes then. “Oh, that’s simple. She appears drenched in blood.”

They’d stayed in his office a bit longer, on safe topics—her plans for the next day, which included the early-morning visit with Dr. James and a little side trip he’d like to take her on, how the weather was expected to behave, what time she’d like to take breakfast—then drank the rest of the port and called it a night. She wasn’t tired, but she knew she needed to get some sort of rest.

He left her at the door to her room with a chaste kiss on the top of her hand, in classic French style, and departed without a backward glance. After that moment in his office, she’d expected to have to fight him off, to set the ground rules, but the conversation’s turn had put a damper on his mood. It had the same effect on hers.

Upon returning, the rooms seemed slightly changed, which alarmed her for half a second until she realized it must have been one of the maids turning things down for the evening. Straightening up after her like she was an untidy child. No wonder everything in the castle looked so lovely. Unseen hands followed behind the family members, restoring order in their wakes. In defiance, she went and pulled a book at random from the shelves and dropped it on the chair, where it spilled open. There. It looked like someone was staying here now.

A bath sounded heavenly. She started the tub to fill, and took another Percocet. It had worked wonders tonight; the headache had been at a dull simmer in the back of her head for the past few hours. She could continue to keep it at bay if she took the meds now instead of waiting the prescribed six hours. Deciding she felt like reading, she went back in the sitting room to gather the book.

The hardcover she’d so carelessly plucked from the shelves and tossed on the chair was now closed, sitting squarely in the middle of the cushion. Good grief. She went to the door to make sure it was locked. She didn’t like the idea of the maids being able to come in and out as they pleased. Memphis had probably told them to tend to her every need, but this was ridiculous.

But the door was locked. And the interior latch bolt had been thrown as well. Which meant no one could come into the room without her knowledge.

She glanced back at the book, sitting so pristinely front and center on the chair, and a little frisson of fear went down her spine.

Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Taylor. There is no such thing as ghosts.

She scooped up the book from the chair and headed back to the bath, stripping off her clothes as she went, dropping them willy-nilly on the floor. When she got into the tub, she opened the novel, and nearly laughed out loud. She’d chosen Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca from the shelves.

She allowed herself to get lost in the nameless second Mrs. de Winter’s world for thirty minutes, until her eyes started to ache and her heart throbbed in her temples, then climbed from the tub. Her room was as she left it. Despite herself, she sighed in relief.

She got dressed for bed, snuggled under the covers, found the bed was equipped with an electric blanket, turned it on and texted Baldwin.

He wrote back immediately. His presence chased away all the ghosts.

How are you?

Fine. Full as a tick, warm from my bath. Going to sleep, just wanted to touch base. How are you? How’s the case?

Just fine. I might have to be out of touch for a few days. Immersion. So don’t worry if you don’t hear from me.

Ah. She was being punished. She had a feeling this might happen. She clung to the hope that when she saw him next, she’d have her voice back, her head on straight, and could give herself to him again. Either that or she’d be handing back the ring. The thought filled her with sadness.

Don’t react, Taylor. Be nice. Be sweet.

Atlantic is sending you somewhere warm, I hope. Maybe you can get a break.

That would be nice. How’s the voice?

She tried to ignore the fact that he’d just held back from telling her the truth. Again. Why he didn’t feel he could confide in her, she didn’t know. But it set her teeth on edge. She didn’t feel like a fight now, though.

Scattered and unreliable. It’s easier to just write things down.

You have to practice. Keep doing your exercises.

I will.

Okay, sweetheart. You get a good night’s sleep then.

Good luck.

Thanks. I love you. Please, text me when you finish your session with the new doctor. I’d like to hear how it goes.

I thought you were going to be out of touch.

Maybe. But not until tomorrow night. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Sweet dreams.

When she put the phone away, she felt strangely empty. Everything was changing. And she didn’t like change.

She turned off the light and tried to sleep. After two hours, she finally drifted off, the lost children of strangers heavy on her mind.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Baldwin hated not being able to share everything that was happening with Taylor. It was better that way, safer for her. She didn’t need the details. After the debacle last year, when one of Atlantic’s premier assassins had decided to come after Baldwin through Taylor, he’d become adamant about keeping his personal life out of his professional life. He didn’t make a lot of friends when he worked with Atlantic. He was fairly certain that would be the case tonight.

One of those nonfriends was the next call he made.

He put the phone to his ear, let it ring once, twice, three times, before a heavy voice answered. Baldwin could tell the man had been drinking. He didn’t know if that would work in his favor, or against.

“She’s safe in bed. Unmolested, I might add. Surely you don’t think I’m that much of a heel,” the cultured, lackadaisical voice of Memphis Highsmythe said.

“That’s not what I was calling about. I need your help.”

“Oh. Quite. Whatever can I do for you, Baldwin?”

“Who do you know at MI-6?”

“Goodness. Planning on giving up all the state secrets? A fresh Wikileak from the FBI?”

“Seriously, Memphis. I need a favor.”

Memphis’s voice lost its jocular sarcasm. “What level of favor are we talking about?”

“One from the very top.”

Memphis sighed. “That would be Nigel then.”

Sir Nigel Ainsley was just the man he wanted to speak with. Knighted in his forties, subsequently involved in the arms-to-Iraq deal, Ainsley had been outed as an agent, then retired, so to speak, to MI-6, where he ran the men and women he’d previously been a peer of. He was an exemplary spy, well known for his genial manner and first-rate discretion.

Discretion Sir Nigel applied when arranging to use members of Atlantic’s Angelmakers. He’d been the last to engage the now-errant Julius’s services. Memphis didn’t need to know that.

“Good. That’s who I was hoping for. Can you ask if he’d be willing to speak with me?”

“I can. But why? What sort of scheming is the FBI up to? Speaking of which, I’m a bit chafed at you. Getting me pulled back to New Scotland Yard last month wasn’t necessary.”

“Wasn’t me. I swear it.” He was telling the truth, too, he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger. There had been concern about Memphis from other quarters. Granted, Baldwin had cheered silently when Memphis had been pulled off the Quantico counterterrorism detail, but it had come from within his own service, not from Baldwin’s end.

“Ah. Interesting. Why, exactly, can’t you call him yourself?”

“Classified.”

“Right.”

“I’m available by phone for the next hour if he can spare me five minutes.”

“Fine. I’ll call him. But I’m going to need a favor in return, then.”

“Anything within reason.”

“My case. I’m probably dealing with a religious zealot who is schizophrenic. I make this call, you give me some guidance on how to approach him. Deal?”

Hardly a big price to pay. “Deal.”

“Thank you. Have a pleasant evening, Baldwin.”

“Memphis, wait.”

“Yes?”

“How is she?”

There was a pause. “You were right. She’s exceptionally fragile. But stubborn. The essential spark of her is still there. She has a pure heart. She will get through this.”

Baldwin breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m glad to hear you say that. Please, let me know if anything changes.”

“I will. Good night.”

“You as well, Memphis.”

Keep your grubby paws off my woman, he added silently.

Memphis hung up the phone and stared at it a few minutes. John Baldwin, profiler extraordinaire, in need of a private chat with Sir Nigel Ainsley. The call was a ruse; Baldwin could get through to Ainsley anytime he wanted. He just wanted to check on Taylor.

He couldn’t say that he blamed him.

He placed the call, had Nigel’s assistant cum bodyguard roust the man from his nightly game of dominoes. It was late, but Nigel would be up, in his library, an untouched Macallan 18 at his elbow, engrossed in his game. He sounded slightly annoyed when he answered, though years of interruptions tempered his aggravation. Especially since the disruption came from the son of one of his oldest friends.

“Sir Nigel. A pleasure.”

“Ah, Lord Dulsie. It’s been too long. How is your father?”

“Just headed to South Africa as we speak. We celebrated his birthday yesterday.”

“I hope he received the Benelli 20-bore. I had that stock hand engraved by a company called A&A, in South Dakota. The real Wild West.”

“He did. He loved it. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him soon.”

“Ah, good, good. At our age, any birthday is preferable to none, and we all need our toys.”

“I’m sure it is. Sir, I have a request. A friend has asked to speak with you. Can you make a call?”

“I’m all tucked in for the night. Tell him to call me at the office tomorrow.”

“He’s an American. FBI. I trust him. If he needs you, it’s important. I’m assuming that he must speak to you outside of your official capacity.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Memphis decided to sweeten the pill. “Fancy a bit of sport? I’ll let you have the run of the estate, whenever you’re next north of the border.” Sir Nigel was as rabid about hunting as he was terrorists and other threats to Queen and country.

Sir Nigel chuckled. “Not above a bribe, are you?”

“Now that’s not a nice term.”

“All right, James. For you. Tell your father hullo and I intend to help him break that Benelli in. I’d best be going if I have any hope of finishing my game.”

Memphis imparted Baldwin’s information and hung up, pleased. A shoot on the estate was a small price to pay for a favor from Ainsley. He wondered if Ainsley suspected something was up already, and that’s why he agreed to talk with the strange American so easily. Ah, well. He’d find out about that in the morning.

He had a lovely outing planned for Taylor tomorrow. He forced away the waves of sorrow that had enveloped him since their postprandial chat. Told Evan’s ghost to leave.

Thought about Taylor’s glossy blond hair, and her eyes, the two mismatched grays competing for his attention. He didn’t know if he could win her or not, but he’d damn well enjoy trying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

She walked the corridor, the familiar length of the hall leading to Memphis’s office, the warm, crackly fire beckoning her in. She was barefoot, dressed in a long, silk nightgown with a richly embroidered robe atop it, her hair pulled into a braid that spilled down her back. Her stomach was distended, full of the child they’d created.

She was worried. Would he be there? The note said to meet him before dawn, before the house awoke. But the house never truly slept. Watchers were everywhere. She knew what foolishness this was, but couldn’t help herself. Just the thought of him, his eyes, deeper blue than any loch, the sharpness of his jaw, the gentleness of his hands. She needed him.

Her hand was on the door now. He was inside. She could smell him. The scent made her careless, and her heart pulsed between her thighs. She pushed open the door.

Blood. Blood everywhere. The room was drenched. The walls dripped with the scent of sex, of lust dampened by the coppery tinge. She tasted it on her tongue, turned to vomit. Once she finished retching, she forced herself inside the room, shut the door behind her. She knew what had caused this. She was to blame. She’d pushed and cajoled.

His body, upright in the chair.

Her lover.

She went to him, careful not to drag the trails of her nightgown in the blood. Her arms skimmed the walls; so much blood. Seeping, all around her. The floor was getting deeper, the tide rushing in, covering her feet now. She moved forward until she could touch his arm. One last time.

Memphis turned, his face a compilation of holes, empty. “Leave here,” he moaned. “Leave before it’s too late.”

She began to scream, louder and louder, until he raised up a bloody hand to quiet her, a hand with a gun, and she saw the muzzle flash as she yanked herself from his grasp, backed away quickly, heedless of the mess.

The bump of her body against something jarred her.

Taylor could feel her spine against the wooden paneling, her arms raised as if she were warding off an attack. She was drenched in sweat, her T-shirt sticking to her body like she’d been swimming in it.

Red, everywhere. Blood.

Her breath came short. She was dying. She could feel her body slipping away into nothingness. Feel the pain in her head grow larger, stronger, until the red was replaced by black.

She couldn’t breathe. She had to breathe.

She forced her eyes open.

The room was empty.

She let her hands drop to her side, realized her heart was pounding against her chest wall so hard it hurt. She breathed in several times, square breaths, trying to get her heart rate to slow.

Her eyes adjusted, the darkened space coming into focus. She was in her bedroom in the castle. Against the wall across from her bed. Not Memphis’s office. And not in the attic of the Snow White’s house facing the Pretender, stepping in the blood of her best friend’s child.

It took a few minutes until she felt like she had herself back under control. She edged to the side table and turned on a lamp. The room leapt from the darkness as if it too was disturbed.

There was nothing sinister about it anymore. It was just a bedroom.

Her breath came more normally now.

Jesus. That was a whopper of a dream. She was used to having crazy nightmares, but Memphis’s wild stories must have really landed in her subconscious. She’d actually felt like the scene was real. She touched her stomach, flat and taut. Crazy. She had felt the child inside her, moving.

And sleepwalking. My God, she hadn’t done that since she was a child.

Her mind reached into the tendrils of the dream. The blood felt so familiar. Her blood. The floor of the attic rising up to meet her, the primal scream the Pretender made as he raised his arm. Stupid, stupid girl, letting him get a gun on her.

She’d gotten herself into this mess. And now look at her. Locked away from everyone, unable to cry for help. She should have never tried to take him down alone.

Taylor knew she wouldn’t sleep the rest of the night. She went into the sitting area, snapping lights on as she went.

Heineken. Second half of Ativan. Another Percocet. Stood at the window until she started feeling a bit fuzzy around the edges.

That was better.

Her legs were feeling a bit wobbly. She sat down at the desk, hard, and opened her laptop. The castle had a strong wireless signal. Memphis had mentioned that they had a T1 line running directly into the castle, lightning-quick. She assumed that the room was also wired. How else would it penetrate those thick stone walls?

Seeking something mundane, she checked her email, deleting three from the various television stations around Nashville wanting interviews—my God, they were relentless—then sent Sam a note. That made her feel better, more grounded.

She closed the computer, helped herself to another beer, and parked in front of the television. She started surfing the channels idly, wishing for her pool table. Surely the castle had a billiards room? She’d have to ask Memphis, though to be honest, she didn’t particularly want to go roaming around this place alone at night.

She settled on a crazy reality show where the contestants were made to strip down so the audience could assess their bodies in an attempt to bolster their flagging self-esteem. That would be a hit in America.

There was a soft knock on her chamber door.

“It’s me,” a low voice said. Memphis.

She was wearing a T-shirt and boxers. Not decent. She grabbed her sweater from the chair and tossed it on. Grabbed her notepad. Went to the door. Opened it.

Memphis stood in the hall, hair sticking up, a blue-and-cream-striped robe half pulled on his shoulders. She smiled.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded.

Of course. Why?

He looked at her like she was an idiot. “You were screaming.”

I was? Funny. I don’t have my voice back. Maybe you heard something else.

“No, Taylor, it was definitely you.”

She didn’t know whether to be happy that things were functional, or embarrassed.

I’m fine. Truly.

He leaned against the door frame.

“I would have come sooner… Honestly, I debated whether coming to you was the best idea.”

At least he was aware of that.

Cold air was leaking in from the hall. She could see him shiver a bit. She pulled the door open wider, gestured for him to come in. Latched it behind him. He went straight to the fire and stirred it up, then turned back to her, the glow from the flames outlining his broad shoulders.

“Bad dreams?” he asked.

No more reason to pretend. He was here now. She wondered if she’d brought him subconsciously. Summoned him.

She sat at the desk and crossed her legs, prim and proper.

You could say that. It was bizarre. You told me to leave.

He stayed statue still in front of the fire. “I’d never tell you that. It’s the last thing I want. I want you to stay. To be here.”

He paused. His face was jagged in the firelight.

“I will never lie to you, Taylor. I’ve been as open and up front about my feelings as I can. I respect that you’re with Baldwin. Hate it, but respect it. I promise, I will never do anything that you don’t want. But right now, I’m going to ask a favor. Can I stay here tonight?”

She was taken aback. It was a great speech, completely controverted by the last statement. But he looked like a very frightened child.

I don’t know if that’s such a great idea, Memphis.

He tipped his head. “Your virtue is safe with me, my lady. I’d just like the company. We can sleep, or talk. If you think about it, we’ve been talking every night for the past several weeks. I missed it tonight. And seeing as you’re having bad dreams, maybe we can help keep each other entertained for a bit. At least until you’re ready to go back to sleep.”

What if I want to go back to sleep right now?

Careful, Taylor. Careful.

He watched her warily, trying to ascertain any hidden meaning, or openings. Apparently sensing she was sincerely interested in sleep, or at least too drunk to stand up properly, he waved a hand toward the bed.

“Then by all means, do so. I’ll watch over you in case you have any more bad dreams.”

She broke eye contact, fiddled with the TV remote. He was right. They had been talking every night. He’d been the one she turned to when Baldwin had shut her out. Could she blame him for treasuring that intimacy? She’d been the one letting it happen, after all. Encouraging it, if she were being honest with herself. It felt good to have a friend she could count on.

All right. But just sleeping, Memphis. I am tired, and I’d like to try to get some rest.

He gave her that wicked smile that made her feel funny inside. “Of course.”

She hesitated for another moment, then powered down the TV. Picked up her pen.

Turn off the lights.

He did.

The darkness felt different. Not as foreboding. Safer.

She went into the bedroom, pulled off her sweater and climbed back into the bed. Memphis lay down next to her, careful to point out that he was on top of the covers. She plumped up her pillow and stared at the ceiling.

They were quiet for a few minutes, then Memphis started to sing. It was a soft tune, quiet, and she got the sense that it was a lullaby of sorts. She let the words roll over her, her eyes shutting, all the fight gone out of her.

Maybe she could sleep again after all. With Memphis there to protect her.