“And that’s why you wanted to go to the film set tonight? You were hoping someone would shoot footage to tip off either Crutchfield or my father?”

“That wasn’t my specific intent. But when I heard it could happen, I wasn’t devastated,” he admitted before turning and looking her straight in the eye. “Look, I don’t believe we’re going to catch these guys through standard shoe leather investigation. We have to draw them out, get them excited; hope they make a mistake. And the best way to do that is to make them come out of hiding and go after you. That’s when they’re most vulnerable.”

His third drink arrived and he tossed it back while Jessie took another sip of hers.

“I guess I appreciate your honesty,” she said. She had suspected this might be his reason but she hadn’t expected him to come clean about it. He deserved credit for that at least.

“I’m a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them,” he said, before amending it a moment later. “Actually, that’s not true. I am a liar; just not a congenital one. It’s situation-specific.”

“Man, you are one surly son of a bitch,” she marveled. “How did you get that way?”

He looked over at her and raised his eyebrow. She thought she’d somehow offended him and decided to let the matter drop. But then he answered.

“Four years ago, my wife and son were killed in a hit and run by a bank robber,” he said without emotion. “The guy was trying to escape and T-boned them. He walked away without a scratch. I’ve been in a bad mood ever since.”

Jessie, in shock, coughed on her drink. It took her a good twenty seconds to recover.

“Jeez,” she finally managed to croak, “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

“Believe me, if there’s anyone who doesn’t have to show deference to me in the family tragedy department, it’s you. Mother murdered by your serial killer father at age six. Left for dead in a freezing cabin with her body. Your husband turns out to be a sociopath who frames you for murder and then tries to kill you when you figure it out. Your long-lost father finds and butchers your adoptive parents. I’m surprised you’re not more surly.”

“Yeah, me too,” Jessie agreed quietly.

Suddenly she didn’t feel like drinking the rest of her scotch. Images of her adoptive parents, Bruce and Janine Hunt, flashed through her head. She tried not to think of the last ones; of them both dead in their senior living apartment. She tried to picture them when they were younger, teaching her to bake chocolate chip cookies and to ski on the bunny slopes of New Mexico. But the other, harsher, images kept intruding.

“I need to go to the restroom,” she muttered, getting up from the stool.

Murph moved to follow her but she held up her hand.

“Can I please just get a single, solitary moment of privacy?” she asked tersely. “I’m not going anywhere. Just chat up your buddy there. I’ll be back in a minute.”