She almost sounds relieved. I have to admit I’m curious to see who she’ll call. She’s from New York, or at least that’s the I.D. she’s carrying. Maybe she’ll call her mob boss.
I picture a group of Italians in suits coming into the station to break her out, threatening to bust my kneecaps and throwme off the pier. The only pier we have around here is out at the reservoir. I’m not telling her that—just in case.
I pull the old-fashioned station phone up to the counter and set it where she can reach it.
Miss Keller stares at me.
Then she says. “I can’t exactly dial with my hands cuffed.”
“Oh!” I give her a once over, steeling my features so she knows I mean business. “I’ll let you loose, but you have to promise not to run.”
She shakes her head again. But then she says, “I promise.”
I grab my keychain and use the tiny cuff key to pop the lock.
“Oh, no,” Miss Keller says, rubbing her wrists. “Lexi’s number. It’s in my phone. Did you grab it out of the van?”
“Yes ma’am. I put it in your purse. Let me retrieve that from the cruiser. You just stay here.”
Another shake of her head—as if I’m incompetent. So, I left her purse in the car. That’s not a crime. Stealing Santa? She has no room to talk.
I return with her purse, handing it to her.
“I could have a weapon in here,” she advises me.
When I lurch for the purse, she says, “I don’t. Relax, Heinz.”
“It’s Jesse,” I say on an impulse. She has me off my game.
Focus, Heinz. This is serious.
“Jesse.” She tries my name on for size, looking at me quizzically. I don’t hate the way she looks at me. Her eyes are bright—intelligent. She’s trying to make sense of me for some reason. Maybe trying to get the upper hand.
“Your call,” I say. “Make it now.” My tone is authoritative again.
I may wear boxers with Disney characters on them, but I’m all business when it comes to crime.
She pulls her phone out of her purse and then she pushes a contact.
“You’re supposed to use the station phone,” I say, but we both know I’m not going to enforce that now.
A burst of female laughter and chatter explodes through the line the second her call connects.
“Yes. Yes,” she says. “And you’ll never guess where I am.”
The other person answers her, and then Miss Keller says, “I’m at the Bordeaux Police Station. I just got frisked.” Her eyes meet mine and I fight a blush.
She pulls the phone away from her ear—more laughter and shrieks on the other end.
“Lexi, stop laughing,” Miss Keller says, but she starts laughing too. It’s soft and melodic, and her eyes crinkle with amusement.
All the blood drains from my face. The room tilts—humiliation, unexpected attraction, and years of fighting for an ounce of respect collide in a wooziness. Spinning. My stomach tightens. I grab for the desk, but miss ...
I open my eyes. Cold seeps through the back of my uniform shirt, the station floor hard against my shoulders. A subtle chemical-clean scent hits my nose—disinfectant and burnt coffee, the signature aroma of the Bordeaux PD. I blink, and her face comes into focus above me, all concern and blonde hair and soft light.
“Are you okay?” she asks, dabbing a cool, damp paper towel to my forehead.
“You’re … Lexi’s cousin?” I ask.
