Free Southern Poison by T. Lynn Ocean

drawing my attention to his missing piece of ring finger. “What happened to your hand?”
    His expression froze in distaste, as though I’d asked something very personal. After a few beats, he held up his hand, fingers outstretched and palm toward me. His hands were huge and the fingers thick with muscle, like a football jock. “Lost it in an accident. No big deal.”
    “Okay. I don’t mean to pry, John. I was just curious.”
    He studied something invisible to me, something hanging in the air, a vivid flashback maybe. “We grew up on a small farm. When we were teenagers, my brother was feeding stalks of corn through the chopper and his shirt got caught. Almost pulled him in.”
    “So you saved him?”
    John drank, nodded. “Back then, not all machines had emergency shutoffs, and there wasn’t time to do anything other than cut his shirt away to free him. I didn’t even realize I’d hurt myself until we saw the blood. He said I was his hero. And he was real upset that a piece of my finger was cut off.” John drank a third of the bottle with one tilt. “What he didn’t realize is that I would have gladly lost my entire hand, or even my arm, to save him.”
    I nodded. “Where does he live?”
    John’s eyes cut sharply to mine. “He doesn’t. He’s dead.”
    “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” John didn’t want to talk about it so I didn’t push.
    Our appetizer arrived and we ordered a second round of lagers. He spooned one of the grouper-and-avocado-stuffed flour tortillas onto a small plate for me before serving himself. “Since we’re learning a bit about each other, tell me, Jill. Who do you really work for?”
    “Excuse me?” My hearing is fine, but he’d caught me completely off guard.
    “My guess is Homeland Security, even though you don’t look the type.”
    I showed him my puzzled smile. “You think I work for Homeland Security? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Why would you say that?”
    “Just a guess. But what I do know is that the temp agency you supposedly work for doesn’t exist. Mama Jean gave me the number when I stopped by to bring her flowers. I need to hire some laborers to do a renovation project at my condo, but when I called, the person on the other end of that number said she was short staffed and didn’t have anyone available, even though I told her I was flexible on the days. What’s more strange is the fact that there is no business listing anywhere in this area for the temp agency.”
    “You’ve got quite an imagination. Besides, the temp agency is brand new.”
    John smiled and the skin around his eyes crinkled, giving his eyes a friendly, almost mischievous appeal. I noticed that the hair at his temples was slightly gray, but on him, it looked distinguished. “I don’t believe you,” he said.
    “Why not?”
    “The miniature cameras mounted beneath your truck’s overhang, for starters. Most people would never bother to look, much less recognize them as digital recording devices. But I’m trained to notice things.”
    I brushed my hair back and styled it with my fingers, unconcerned. “That’s weird, because I’ve never noticed anything even resembling a camera anywhere on Mama Jean’s truck.”
    “I oversee day-to-day security for MOTSU. I know pretty much everything that goes on. And I’ve seen several new additions in personnel that happened all at once.” I started to interrupt but he stopped me with an upheld hand. “Plus I was instructed to have my men on alert for anything unusual and report any deviances—regardless ofhow slight—from normal operating procedures. Security measures are tighter than before. It’s obvious that a potential threat has been detected.”
    My eyes went wide. “What kind of threat?”
    “Don’t know, wasn’t told.”
    I gave him my brightest smile. “Well anyway, I just sell food from a truck to earn a little lipstick money. For something to do, really. I lead a simple life.”
    He reached across