CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jessie didn’t have time to react.

Before she could move or even speak, Crutchfield had slammed her into the wall and whipped a small knife out of the purse. He held it to her carotid artery, pressing the tip firmly against her skin. They were both facing forward, staring at each other in the bathroom mirror.

“Am I your beast of burden, Miss Jessie?” he purred in her ear in his agonizingly familiar Louisiana drawl.

In the middle of her heart-thumping panic, Jessie chastised herself for not realizing it was him earlier. The perm was clearly a bad wig. The pantsuit looked like something he’d found at a thrift shop specializing in 1980s women’s wear. And up close, the hair on his arms was obvious, even if he had shaved and put pancake makeup and mascara on his face.

She’d been so polite, not wanting to judge this seemingly drunk, fashioned-challenged relic from another era that she’d missed the obvious warning signs. As she stared back silently at Crutchfield, she allowed her frustration with herself to rise up as her central emotion. It was preferable to fear.

He stared at her impassively, watching her, waiting to see how she’d react. She knew that what she said and did next might determine if she lived or died.

This was the first time she’d interacted with Crutchfield without him being locked up. Though the physical situation between them had changed, she decided their dynamic couldn’t. She tried to quiet her mind, control the terror creeping out of her insides and remind herself why Crutchfield had helped her with cases in the past, why he enjoyed her visits, why he’d even warned her that her father was after her: he liked her.

And why does he like me?

Because I don’t back down from him. Because I don’t act like the helpless victim. Because I give as good as I get. Because, despite everything I’ve suffered, I’m a badass.

In that moment, she knew what to do. Despite the knife digging at her throat, Jessie felt her body relax. She stopped pressing against Crutchfield, stopped trying to break free, and allowed him to squeeze her tighter. She took a long, slow, languorous breath and exhaled deeply.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Mr. Crutchfield,” she said in a steadier voice than she imagined possible. “I wouldn’t call you a beast, though you’re hardly a prince either.”

Crutchfield grinned despite himself, loosening his grip on her ever so slightly.

“Still a firecracker, even under these circumstances,” he said appreciatively. “I’ve missed your company, Miss Jessie. You never cease to surprise.”

Jessie took another breath, fairly certain now that he was unlikely to gut her like he had Ernie Cortez, at least not in the next few seconds.

“Nor you, Mr. Crutchfield,” she replied smoothly. “I didn’t know your taste in fashion was so retro. Are you going to a ‘Working Girl’ costume party later?”

Crutchfield broke out into a full smile at that reference.