Is this my life now—jumping at every shifting shadow I see?

She feared that it just might be.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

“I’m sorry.”

Jessie turned to Dolan, not certain that she’d really heard the words come out of his mouth.

“Excuse me?” she said, staring at him. “Sorry for what?”

“For what I said before, about you being like your dad. I didn’t mean it.”

“I didn’t think you even remembered saying it, Double Bourbon,” she said, trying to keep it light.

“I don’t get drunk as fast as I used to,” he said. “So my head was still pretty clear at that point.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, then after a long moment, added, “Have you talked to anyone about what happened, to your family, I mean?”

“I’ve talked to lots of people, Hunt. It was Bureau-mandated. I’ve been through more therapists than pairs of shoes in the last few years.”

“Of course,” she said. “And I don’t mean to butt my head in where it doesn’t belong. But I think I’ve got some expertise in this area. As someone who was strapped down to a chair and forced to watch my mother murdered by my father when I was six, who had to assume a new identity as a child, whose husband tried to kill me and whose adoptive parents were also butchered by my birth father, I think I’m qualified to say this, You need help, man. You are drowning in cynicism. And no amount of bourbon is going to wipe that away.”

She waited for him to tell her to mind her business. But he didn’t.

“What do you suggest?” he asked, uncharacteristically quiet.

“I see someone semi-regularly who really helps me. Her name is Dr. Janice Lemmon. She’s not just a shrink. She’s a behavioral therapy specialist. And she used to work as a consultant for the LAPD, among others. She knows her stuff and she doesn’t take any crap. I’m about forty percent less messed up than I would be if I didn’t see her. I could give you her number.”

“Let me think about it,” he said.

“I’m giving you the number. You can call her or not. But at least you have it if you need it.”

“Thanks, Hunt. You’re not as terrible as I thought you’d be.”

“Wish I could say the same,” Jessie said, smiling.

*

Despite her best efforts, Jessie couldn’t stop hearing the words.

“You’re like any other hunter who loves the chase,” Milton Jerebko had told her. “You stalked your prey. Now that you’ve bagged it, you don’t care about the consequences. You don’t care about the lives that will be destroyed.”

And though Agent Dolan had tried to retract what he’d said about her similarity to her father, the memory of his comments lingered too.

“You both use stealthy techniques to achieve your goals until you determine that a full-on frontal assault is more effective. And you both have terrible impulse control.”

There was no point in denying it anymore. Jessie could see the truth now. They were both right. She had inherited her father’s relentless love of the hunt. She would use whatever method, no matter how deceptive or morally dubious, to achieve the outcome she wanted.