Lucinda shucked her hat from her head and clomped down the rectory corridor, her rubber Mucks shedding clods of slush from their lugged soles.
She found Kirk with his feet up on the desk.
“What business?” she said.
He lifted a beer can from his lap.
“Jesus,” she said.
“Judas maybe.”
Lucinda turned to leave.
“Hold up,” Kirk said and swung his feet to the floor.
“What?” Lucinda said. “If you have business, what is it? Spit it out.”
“Personal business.” He stood. “Unfinished business.”
What a fool she was.
“I mean real business,” she said.
“This is real as it gets. The way you let me touch your wrist.”
“I didn’t let you do anything. I’m leaving,” she said, ice in her voice.
He reached for her, got her wrist.
She yanked away. He grabbed tighter.
A button on her coat sleeve popped off and spun on the floor.
Kirk stared at her. His eyes deadened with a cold meanness. She’d forgotten it, the meanness. She remembered it now. His words used for cruelty. Strength wielded for intimidation, bravado masking weakness.
“Relax,” he said.
“I am relaxed,” she said, though her heartbeat crashed in her chest, her ire steaming.
“Good,” he said. Smiling. A fake smile. If he had a real one at all. He tapped his badge with his fingertip. “You don’t want to make the sheriff take out his handcuffs.”
He reached for her wrist.
She spun, yanked free, and drove the heel of her palm into his nose.
He staggered back, clutched his nose, blood leaking.