Page 99 of Backtrack

Cutter adjusted his posture just enough to force the prisoner to lean away. He didn’t look up from his carving.

“That’s interesting,” he mused, almost to himself. “The room key in your pocket shows you’re on the same ship.”

“So?” Preston said.

Cutter glanced up.

“You spend a lot of time lifting weights.”

Preston shrugged. “I own a gym.”

“I’m guessing you’re six-one, somewhere around two-thirty.”

“Two-forty,” he said.

Cutter used the tip of his blade to rough out what would eventually become the owl’s ears. “Cruise ships are monstrosities,” he said. “I’ll bet you could have been on the same ship for a week and not run into her.”

“Damn straight,” Preston said.

Cutter looked over his shoulder at Lola. “You know what, Teariki? I don’t buy the purse theory either.”

Preston leaned forward in his seat, hopeful. “You don’t?”

“Nope,” Cutter said. “No way you’d plan to steal something from that woman when you knew she’d be able to ID you.”

Preston threw back his head and stared at the ceiling. “That’s what I’ve been telling you. I wasn’t trying to rob her!”

Cutter nodded in agreement. “She initiated the conversation.”

“Yes! She’s the one who came up to me.”

“Okay … I’m tracking now,” Cutter mused. “Some strange woman you never met before just walked over and started harassing you.”

“Yes!”

“There wasn’t much you could do but grab her to try to defend yourself.”

“Absolutely,” Preston said.

“It’s hard for other people to see when a girl attacks a bigger guy.”

“That’s right!”

“Well …” Cutter gave him a smiling nod. “I want you to know, you’re not alone.”

“Thank you.”

“Hell no.” Cutter returned to carving with the whittler. “There’s plenty of assholes out there just like you.”

He leaned over, all but forehead to forehead with Preston. Two big dogs with one clearly asserting his dominance. “You can’t help it if that woman had the gall to hurt your tender feelings.”

“She ain’t exactly a little daisy.”

Cutter pooched out his lip. “And her words made you so angry you had to grab her and give her a little shake—maybe even toss her over the railing.”

“No …” Preston stammered.

Cutter shrugged. “The bruises on her arm tell me otherwise.”