Not words.
Breathing.
Movement.
Unease.
Crawford’s eyes narrowed.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no.”
His fingers dug deeper into her arm.
“You’re coming with me.”
Jessica looked down at his grip.
“You should take your hand off me first.”
“Or what?”
Jessica raised her eyes.
“Nothing good happens after this point.”
She said it quietly.
That made the sentence feel heavier.
Crawford stared at her.
For half a second, something uncertain moved through his expression again.
Then ego buried it.
“You threatening me?”
“No.”
“Sure sounds like it.”
Jessica remained still.
“I’m giving you an opportunity.”
He scoffed.
“To do what?”
“To make a better decision.”
Several Marines exchanged glances.
One of them, a staff sergeant with close-cropped gray at his temples, shifted his weight forward.
Crawford saw him.
That seemed to irritate him.
He tugged Jessica another step.
Her mother called from several rows away.
“Jessica?”
Jessica heard her immediately.
She did not turn.
Her mother’s voice sharpened.
“Jessica, what’s happening?”
Crawford glanced past her.
“Ma’am, stay where you are.”
Jessica’s mother, Patricia Dalton, ignored him.
She moved between folding chairs and families carrying small American flags.
Her expression changed when she saw his hand.
“Take your hand off my daughter.”
Crawford straightened.
“Ma’am, this is a military matter.”
“She told you to let go.”
“Your daughter is impersonating military personnel.”
Patricia stopped.
She stared at him.
Then she looked at Jessica.
Jessica gave the smallest shake of her head.
Not yet.
Patricia understood.
She always had.
Years of not knowing where Jessica deployed had taught her how to read fragments.
A glance.
A pause.
A silence that meant more than explanation.
So Patricia stopped where she was.
Crawford noticed the exchange.
He misunderstood it completely.
He smiled.
“See that?”
He turned slightly toward the Marines.
“Even her mother knows she’s in trouble.”
A murmur passed through the people nearest them.
Jessica heard it.
So did Patricia.
Her mother’s face tightened with anger.
Jessica stayed calm.
That calm was beginning to irritate Crawford almost as much as her refusal.
He squeezed again.
“You want to play soldier?”
Jessica’s eyes did not move.
“No.”
“Then tell me where you belong.”
“I already did.”
“You told me nothing.”
“I told you enough.”
His nostrils flared.
The smell reached her again.
Whiskey.
Not a trace.
Not something imagined.
Strong enough to cut through the coffee.
