Chapter 2
Jesse
“I didn’t do it.”
~ Almost Every Criminal Ever
I glance into my rearview to check on the woman I apprehended. Her big doe eyes catch mine in the mirror and she narrows them at me. She’s a feisty one, that’s for sure. Asking me to put on a Santa hat when she’s facing down a minimum of four violations? That’s grit.
I’m not used to actually arresting people.
Most nights I’m hauling Cooter home after he’s climbed into the wrong bed after a night at Cues and Brews, or I’m answering Esther’s “burglar” calls that turn out to be raccoons raiding her trash.
Then there’s the occasional group of kids who get a wild hair and decide to drive a tractor down Main Street.
Other than that, we’re a sleepy town. Typically, I’m driving down quiet streets, sipping lukewarm coffee, listening to true-crime podcasts, and ending the night in my double bed—alone.
But this? Stealing a van’s no joke. Not to mention stealing that Santa. And what’s with her knowing everyone in town? Maybe she’s a part of a crime ring—they’ve done their research. If that’s the case, maybe we’re about to have a rash of auto thefts around here.
Stay sharp, Heinz.
Miss Keller doesn’t look the part, but then again, the real ones never do.
I’m about to tell her she can call me Jesse, after all, my mama raised me with manners. But I’m dealing with a criminal, so I think it’s prudent to keep things professional.
I’m a police officer.
She thought she’d throw me off my game with that one. I could throw the book at her for impersonation, but I’ll go easy on that since she probably didn’t know the heft of that claim. She’s got enough to answer for with her other charges.
I hum along to the carol on the radio, the wiper blades thumping in time to the song. I’ve got holiday spirit to spare. Sleigh bells tied to my cruiser mirror, cocoa in my cup holder … and the ever-present determination to be taken seriously for once in my life.
Well, that last one’s not exactly holiday relevant.
Around here, they’ve taken to calling me “the department elf.” I’m not short, so I’m pretty sure they’re talking about that guy Buddy from the movie—the one who put syrup in his spaghetti.
I’m not a cotton-headed ninnymuggins. I care for my town.
I helped Em find her family in Boston. I’m good at what I do—thorough, conscientious, calm under pressure—for the most part.
I glance in the rearview again. Taking down a car theft? She’s not wrong. That’ll be a feather in my cap. Not only a feather—a whole chicken. Not that I want a chicken in my cap, or anywhere else near my head for that matter.
“Are you warm enough back there?” I ask Miss Keller.
I swallow, throat dry. She’s beautiful—and I’m on duty, which somehow makes it worse.
I need to ignore her thick blonde braid sticking out from under her knit cap, a slight curl at the end making me wonder what her hair’s like when it’s down.
And those pouty lips, pressed thin in frustration—at getting caught, I’m sure.
How desperate does a man have to be to start noticing how pretty a suspect looks in handcuffs? Pathetic.
But, in my defense, it’s not my fault that our town’s this small. The majority of the women my age have found the loves of their lives already. Not one of them would give me the time of day even when they were single. And that’s okay. I’m happy for each one of them.
I’m not about to relocate out of Bordeaux. My family’s here. It’s the only home I’ve known. I’ve learned to cope—throwing myself into my work, and serving my community with gusto.
“Now you’re going to check if I’m comfortable?” she asks with a tone of indignance and a firm set to her shoulders.
“I’m not mistreating you, ma’am. I’m just doing my job. If you’re cold, you just let me know. These cruisers aren’t new models, but they’ve got heaters that do the trick.”
She shakes her head as if I’m the one in the wrong here. Must be part of her act—trying to keep me questioning her guilt. I don’t even need my background training to sniff that out. One episode of Chicago P.D. and I could tell you the criminal never admits to committing the crime.
Gravel crunches under the cruiser’s tires as we pull into the station lot. A soft layer of white covers everything—our first real snow of the season.
“Here we are,” I say. “Bordeaux PD.”
Her eyes scan the brick building as if she’s casing the joint.
“I get one phone call,” she reminds me.
“Of course you do. You can even have a cup of cocoa. I’m not into police brutality. Just upholding the law.”
A derisive sniff is her only answer.
I exit the cruiser, pocketing my keys, and then I open the back door for Miss Keller.
“Oh. Wait here, would ya? I’ve got to unlock the building after hours.”
She nods, rolling her eyes as if I’m putting her out. At least she’s consistent.
Once the metal-framed glass double doors are jiggled open, I return to my cruiser to help Miss Keller to her feet. Then I lead her into the station, my hand on her back. When she shrugs me off, I shift to exerting a light grip to her upper arm.
I hit the light switch on the wall and the fluorescents overhead flicker to life. No one’s here at this time of night, so I’m going to have to process her alone.
“I’m going to have to … uh … frisk you.” My voice cracks on the last word. Perfect.
This is business. I’ll be a gentleman—one hundred percent professional.
“You’re what?!” She practically screeches. “This is ridiculous.”
“Frisk you. I have to. You could be armed. It’s protocol.”
“You … no.” She shakes her head.
“Now, now, Miss Keller. We can do this the hard way or the easy way. That’s going to be entirely up to you.”
She shakes her head at me and then mutters something that sounds like: “Bucket list item number two.”
“If you’ll just spread your legs so I can pat each one down …”
I deserve a raise. She thinks this is mortifying to her?
Images of the other officers and our chief flash through my head. No one takes me seriously enough. I’m going to do this the way it needs to be done. The last thing I need is one of them asking if I frisked her and me having to confess that I skipped a step. Nope. We’re going by the book.
I squat, starting at her ankles, patting up each calf then quickly working around each thigh—fast but thorough—and by the time I look up, her face is beet red, and mine’s not far behind.
“I’m truly sorry, ma’am. This isn’t either of our favorite part of this situation. I wouldn’t be down here if you hadn’t gotten it into your mind to steal Lexi and Trevor’s van.”
“My cousin!” she shouts. Then she regulates her breathing. It’s impressive how quickly she can tame her emotions. “My cousin. Lexi is my cousin. Memaw is her grandma. Trevor is her husband. Her children are Poppy and Oliver. They live in a house you people call the Finch place.”
She does know an awful lot about the MacIntyre family. That’s not proof of her innocence, though. Anyone could look up facts and gather intel.
“I appreciate your familiarity with the locals,” I tell her. “I still need to do my job.”
She sighs. “Go ahead, then.”
She lifts her chin and closes her eyes while I pat around her midriff and shoulders, politely avoiding anything I shouldn’t touch without being issued a marriage license.
The image of her at an altar pops into my head unbidden. I swat it away like a summer fly.
“Okay, then,” I say, stepping back. “Looks like you’re unarmed.”
“Hmph.”
“Did you want your one call before I lock you in the cell?”
“Yes. Please.”
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 throw me 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.
“Yes. Alexandra Keller. Nice to meet you.” She chuckles, but her eyes still hold a compassionate concern. “You fainted.”
I try to sit up, but I’m still a bit out of it, so my head returns to the floor, only she cups it before I make contact, easing me into a safe position.
“Easy there,” she says. “You need to go slowly after passing out.”
“And you’re a policeman … woman?”
“Definitely woman,” she says, that amused tone still wrapped around her words.
“Right. Yes. I noticed that. During the frisk.” I close my eyes and groan.
“What force are you with? NYPD?”
“Um. No. I’m actually starting here. Monday.”
“Here? As in Bordeaux? You’re …” All the lights go on in one flash. “Alex. The new hire. Alex.”
“Yep. That’s me.”
“I’ll just be relocating now,” I say, sitting up in earnest.
I’m about to stand when the gaggle of women I’ve known since elementary school barges into the station.
“Jesse!” Lexi says with her hands on her hips, staring down at me. “Of all the things you’ve ever done. This takes the cake.”
To my surprise, Alex turns toward her cousin, standing to her full height, and says, “Go easy on him. He didn’t know me.
Based on evidence, he thought I was stealing your van—and an inflatable Santa.
” She chuckles softly. “If I had been, he would have been the recipient of your gratitude right now.”
“You’re right,” Lexi says.
The rest of her friends stand behind her, eyeing me with mirrored looks that say if there’d been a medal for small-town stupidity, I'd have just secured another gold.
“We lost!” Alex exclaims to the group of women.
“Oh, no,” Laura says. “You won. And then some. We’ll do another scavenger hunt sometime soon. But this one … Oh yeah. You won by a landslide.”
“She did sing to me,” I offer, standing from the floor and brushing myself off. “Up on the rooftop …”
“Jesse.” Shannon looks at me with a little more compassion than the rest of her friends. “Did she not tell you she was Lexi’s cousin?”
“Let’s drop it, girls,” Alex says. “I’ve officially been indoctrinated into my new job. Let’s go back to Shannon’s and have some of that cocoa you were raving about earlier.”
They all agree. And with parting scolding glances, the group heads out the double doors, leaving me with the echo of my own humiliation. She’ll be back here Monday, badge and all. I should start practicing how to look her in the eye—without fainting.
How am I ever going to live this down?