Truman clasped his hands behind the back of his neck and stared straight ahead. “No offense, but your cousin’s kind of a dick. Your sister though, she’s—” He shook his head, trying to find the words for what Myra was. “Holy shit.” Daphne stared out at the moving skyline. “I know.” Her voice was distant and Truman lapsed into silence. What he didn’t say was that Myra had scared him a little. Really, he was just glad to be out of there. At the bar she’d slipped onto a stool next to him, pretending not to notice that her leg was pressing against his. When she’d offered to buy him a drink, his first impulse was to say no. The night before was still fresh in his mind and he didn’t want Daphne to see him drunk again. But his skin felt too tight for comfort and it was just one drink. Myra’s smile was wide and inviting, and Truman found it hard to look away. After a second, he nodded. “Road to Redemption,” she told the bartender, holding up a hand. Her nails were painted a sticky, iridescent purple, so dark it looked nearly black in the light from the bar.
