I stand as Twila opens the door.
She steps in and unlocks my cuffs. Her fingers are efficient, no nonsense, but her eyes catch on my knuckles.
Split.
Swollen.
Still dirty with Jeremy’s blood.
Now she looks up.
There is something in her face then that law can’t quite cover. Anger, maybe. Not mine. Hers is colder. Cleaner. A woman’s anger who has seen too many men use procedure as a leash.
“You know why I hit him.”
“I know why.” She pulls the cuffs free and steps back. “I also know that if you give him enough bruises in the right place, he will walk into court wearing them like Sunday clothes and tell everyone Amelia is surrounded by violent criminals.”
“She is surrounded by violent criminals.”
Whiskey says, “Please stop confessing in public buildings.”
Twila points at him without looking. “For once, listen to the man in the expensive shirt.”
Whiskey’s mouth curves. “Deputy Dix, that sounded dangerously close to respect.”
“It was exhaustion. Don’t get sentimental.”
“Never.”
Their eyes meet for one second too long.
Oh, there is definitely something there.
Terrible time for it.
Perfect, then. That is how this club operates.
Twila looks back at me. “You walk out of here today because I have bigger concerns than your bad aim and because Jeremy Vale is already making himself look interesting in ways he did not intend.”
“Interesting.”
“Suspicious,” Whiskey clarifies.
“I knew that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
I glare at him.
Twila hands me a paper bag with my belongings. “Your cut is with the front desk. Your knives are not coming back until I feel like it.”
“Those are expensive.”
“Then behave and earn visitation rights.”
“You taking hostages now?”
“Evidence.”