Page 53 of High Intensity

“I knew there was a reason I liked your mother.”

“Why? Because she’s a master interrogator?”

“No. Because she’s smart, determined, and unapologetically goes after what she wants.”

I shrug, I have to agree. “She is all of those things.”

“I’m glad to hear she’s doing better.” Jillian opens the fridge and starts rummaging through the contents. “I assume you’ll be here for dinner?”

“I’ll be here for the foreseeable future, but that doesn’t mean you have to feed me.”

She pulls her head from the fridge and gives me one of those are-you-for-real looks. I’ve been the subject of one of those once or twice in my day and have learned the best way to deal with them is raise your hands in defense and retreat calmly. Which is exactly what I do, all the way to the couch, where I take a seat and am immediately surrounded by a handful of dogs, all vying for my attention.

“Oh my God. I haven’t even taken those guys for a walk,” Jillian remarks.

“Then grab your coat and we’ll take them,” I suggest. “And when we come back, I’ll help you with whatever it is you were planning to throw together for dinner.”

I let her go out the back with the dogs and tell her to wait, while I lock up the house behind her. Then I leave out the frontso I can set the alarm before I join her in the backyard. None of the dogs are on a leash, but she has them well-trained, and they seem to stick close to her.

The moon is already out and reflecting off the snow cover, creating a blueish glow. It’s crisp, probably not too much below the freezing mark, but the chilly air has a bite. Jillian is keeping her hands warm by having them tucked in the pockets of her short bubble jacket. Our arms rub as we walk side by side, and I find myself reaching for her hand, pulling it free and folding it in my larger one. She doesn’t pull back but slightly adjusts the grip so we’re palm to palm, her slim fingers woven with mine.

I haven’t had the urge to hold anyone’s hand since leaving my high school athletic dance with Kayla Masters, who the entire football team lusted after, and then only to stake my claim. No one is here to see me hold Jillian’s hand, but this isn’t for anyone else’s benefit and I’m not worried about staking any claim. I just crave the physical connection to feel close to her.

We walk in silence—any talking we need to do can wait until later—and enjoy the night and each other’s company.

“If you can make a salad?” Jillian asks when we return to the house half an hour later.

“Sure.”

She hands me a cutting board and a knife, pulls a bunch of vegetables from the fridge, and sets them in front of me.

“What are we cooking?”

“Pesto chicken and gnocchi. It’s fast and easy.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Itisgood; I end up cleaning out the pot after Jillian swears she’s had enough. Then I insist on doing dishes while Jillian puts on the kettle for tea.

All this time we haven’t once discussed what happened today, but the subject has to be addressed at some point.

“Do you want to tell me what happened today?” I ask when we take a seat on her couch.

She sighs deeply, but does not resist when I tuck her under my arm. Then she tells me about her encounter.

“He used your name?”

“Yes. My full name. I thought he might’ve been FBI at first glance, but he identified himself as a representative for Hayley’s uncle. Claimed to have been sent to thank me for finding and attending to Hayley, but the whole thing struck me as odd, and I was eager to get away from him.”

“Good decision. Stefano Puma is not a nice individual.”

She tilts her head back to look at me. “You’ve heard of him?”

“The man has been around and on the radar for a while.”

I don’t bother going into detail about Puma’s reputation. Back when I was still with the FBI, he was known to get his hands dirty, but I suspect by now he has his own army of enforcers. Jillian doesn’t need to know she turned her back on a callous killer, although I have a feeling she’s starting to realize the potential gravity of her situation.

“Yikes.”

---