He reached over and pulled out the left boot, picking up the knife holster and hooking it on the leather so the handle would be just visible on the inside of my leg. “It’s not about stopping power,” he said patiently. “If you tase one of the werewolves and run, he’ll heal as soon as you’re a few feet away and come after you again. And again. Which gives him time to get more werewolves together.” I bit my lip. He was right, but I didn’t want to admit it.
Jesse reached across the counter to touch my hand. “I know you’re not comfortable, Scarlett, but you need to be able to kill one of them if you absolutely have to. I’m not saying don’t use the Taser; I just think you should have a backup plan. Just in case.”
He looked at me, waiting for a response, and after a moment I nodded reluctantly. I didn’t have to use it, right?
He circled the counter to stand over the stool that I was still using as a footrest and held out the boot. I slid my left foot into it. Perfect fit. “I put it inside left so you can draw the knife with either hand. Do you know anything about knives?”
“No,” I said absently. I was drunk on the scent of boot leather and barely listening. I carefully pulled the right boot on too. It came to just below the swollen area of my knee, so the calf was a bit tight, but wearable. With both my legs propped on the extra stool, I pointed my toes slightly to admire the boots. So pretty. I felt like the underworld Cinderella.
“I’ll show you a couple of things when your knee gets better,” Jesse was saying. “For now, though, you just need to know how to angle for the heart. Be careful—I sharpened it.” He drew the knife easily and put it in my hands, holding it there with both of his.
I finally tore my eyes away from the boots so I could study the wickedly sharp blade that I was now holding. “Jesse . . .”
“It’s okay,” he reassured me, gently guiding the blade toward himself. “The heart is here, as you probably know,” he said, tapping the blade very lightly against his chest, just right of his breastbone as I was facing him. “But to stab someone in the heart, it’s best to go between the ribs, from here, at an angle.” He took my right hand off the knife and pressed it to his chest under the knife, guiding my fingers down to touch his rib cage. I smelled coffee on his breath. “You feel that?” he asked, his eyes searching mine.
“Honey, I feel that,” Molly murmured, and I shot her a glare.
“Don’t look at her, look at me,” Jesse said calmly. I met his eyes again. “This is important. Do you feel the space between the ribs?” I nodded. He moved my left hand down and tilted it so the knife blade would travel up through his ribs if I added any pressure. “Like that. Okay?”
His hands were warm, and I could feel his chest rising and falling under my hand. He trusted me with a knife to his heart. “Okay,” I said finally.
“Good.” Jesse dropped his hands and backed up a few steps.
“Thank you for the knife,” I said to him. “And for the boots,” I added to Molly. “I will wear them with pride and lethality.”
Molly put one hand over her heart and pretended to wipe tears from her eyes with the other. “That’s all I ever wanted,” she said dramatically.
“You’re welcome,” Jesse added, his voice turning sober. “Molly, could you excuse us for a bit?”
I got Molly back to her room, where she would “sleep” for the day. To anyone but me, she would actually appear to be dead—minus the decay—but we liked to pretend she was simply nocturnal. It was just easier to deal with, emotionally. I got dressed while I was upstairs too, and by the time I made it back down, Jesse had taken Molly’s seat and refilled his coffee.
When I was settled back on my stool, he passed me a small stack of index cards. “The bottom card has the name and address for Leah’s roommate, and Kathryn’s boyfriend and her parents. The other cards are questions you should definitely ask,” he explained.
Right. I had forgotten for a moment that I was supposed to go play detective today. “Don’t take the cards with you when you go in, though,” Jesse added. “It doesn’t look natural.”
I glanced through the cards. “Who do I say I am?”
He reached into a jacket pocket and dug out a laminated card on one of those little claw clips. “This is totally unofficial, so if someone pushes you, get out of there. I made it on my mother’s laminator.” I took the ID card, which had my driver’s license picture, the LAPD shield, and a title: Civilian Consultant. “Laverne Halliday?” I asked, wrinkling my nose. “Do I look like a Laverne to you?”
“There really is a Laverne Halliday, and she really does consult for the department,” he countered. “That way if someone calls to just verify that you exist, it’ll pass through.”
“Oh.” I looked down at my outfit. I had changed into a pair of wide-legged, dressy khakis over the new boots, a lightweight cowl-neck sweater that matched my green eyes, and a black blazer that belonged to Molly and probably cost almost as much as the boots. After a moment of consideration, I clipped the badge onto the hem of my sweater, so it wouldn’t leave any marks on Molly’s expensive blazer.
Jesse eyed me up and down, but in a professionally appreciative manner, if that’s a thing. “You look perfect,” he concluded.
“But what am I supposed to be consulting on?” I asked dubiously. My areas of expertise, after all, were stain removal, body part disposal, and the primetime television schedules of the greater LA area.