She pivoted in that direction and reached for her gun. It wasn’t there. She remembered she’d had to leave it on the table in the conference room. The figure near the tree stepped into the dull glow of the porch light.

It was Crutchfield.

“Greetings, Miss Jessie,” he said lazily, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Jessie didn’t know how to react. Mixed in with the fear at his presence was her surprise that he was able to know this was her destination and get here first.

None of that matters now.

Without her service weapon, Jessie recognized she had no clear advantage. She was actually taller than him and in better shape. But as she’d learned in the ladies’ room bar the previous night, he was shockingly strong. And she didn’t know if he was armed. His right hand rested at his side but his left was noticeably held behind his back.

She did still have the extra pistol she kept in her concealed ankle holster. But it wasn’t designed for quick, easy access. By the time she reached down, unholstered it, got it out, and pointed it in his direction, he’d likely have time to shoot her, physically attack her, or get away. She had to think of a different way out of this.

“Two visits in two nights,” she said, trying to match his unhurried manner. “If you’re not careful, people will think you’re courting me, Mr. Crutchfield.”

“I would never be so presumptuous, Miss Jessie,” he replied, smiling broadly, even as his fingers twitched slightly, like a gunfighter anticipating a duel.

“Are you here to finish what you started?” she asked, trying to seem engaged even as she desperately tried to think of how to get the upper hand. It wasn’t lost on her that despite his leisurely manner and southern drawl, Bolton Crutchfield was a brutal serial killer.

“You’re hurting my feelings, Miss Jessie,” he said, his lips pursing into a mock pout. “All I did last night was warn you of an imminent threat to your safety.”

“A threat which never materialized,” she shot back.

“Likely because of my warning,” he countered.

“And you didn’t only warn me,” she reminded him. “You also slammed my head against a mirror and knocked me out. Or did you forget that part?”

“I had to extricate myself from the situation quickly. Your Murphy marshal man was getting antsy.”

“Still, not very gentlemanly.”

“Touché,” he acknowledged.

Jessie tried to stay focused, calculating her options. She didn’t seem to have many. Once again she thought of the pistol at her ankle. And once again she determined that at his distance from her, he would either escape or be on her before she could access it.

Meanwhile, time was ticking away. Every second she bantered with him was one less to interrogate the murder suspect inside before the cops arrived. Crutchfield smiled again, as if he understood her dilemma.

“I can see you’re torn, Miss Jessie. This is a real pickle, isn’t it?”