‘But how do painted nails stop you being pigeonholed?’
‘Well, it clearly threw you off the scent,’ he said, placing the sharp edge of the spade under an uneven paver. He levered it up. ‘You reckoned it put me into one of two categories: either a hipster or a dad, if I recall correctly. But you’re wrong on both counts. Now you figure that I painted my nails for a gig. Three strikes.’ Apparently, the need to score was contagious.
Jemma had followed him, using the toe of her sneaker to gingerly push aside the bricks he dug out. ‘Then why?’ she persisted.
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course it does. Actions have consequences. So there has to be a rational reason for the action.’
He leaned on the handle of the spade, eyeballing her. ‘And if you can’t work out that reason? What then?’
‘I keep … digging.’ She grinned, indicating his spade.
He passed it to her. ‘Be my guest.’ Her nosiness should have irritated the crap out of him; it was none of her business that he often gave in to odd impulses, like painting his nails when he’d been putting acrylic on a canvas. Yet her almost compulsive questioning, her need for control, was such a contrast that it was strangely entertaining.
She levered the spade under the edge of a brick, then grunted. ‘Is this cemented in?’
‘Only by time. Probably been there through more than a hundred years of winter rains and baked in by forty-degreesummers. Here.’ He held out his hand to take the tool back, but Jemma shook her head, her face set as her grip tightened. Any second now she’d start on a rant about how women could do anything men could do. ‘So is that part of the job? Along with being heartless?’
‘Is what part of the job?’ she said tersely, though that could have been because of the effort of prising up the stone.
‘Snap judgements.’
‘Got it!’ she exulted as the paver slurped free of the mud. ‘And, yes. To a degree. I need to be able to assess character and intent.’
‘You ever worry you’ve got it wrong?’
‘No.’
Well, that about summed up her arrogance. He gestured towards Ethan, who was threading his way through the chaos, carrying a tray of coffees and a paper bag stencilled with the logo Hamish had drawn for Christine’s Diner. He always got a bit of a kick to see his artwork out in the world, no matter the medium. ‘How would you pigeonhole that guy?’ he said to Jemma.
‘Profile.’ She narrowed her eyes at Ethan, though Hamish suspected it was partly so she could take a break from digging. One brick and she was done. ‘Initially, as a big eater. Except he’s on the thin side and his cheeks are sunken, so I doubt he’s interested in whatever’s in the bag—although he’ll probably hit the coffee. Add the knuckle tatts and the earplugs, and I’d say we’re talking drug use plus prison time.’
‘He’s a uni lecturer and one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet.’ Jemma was right about the drug history, but her ego was big enough that she didn’t need that feedback.
‘Didn’t say he wasn’t. No reason he can’t be high functioning. But also a strong possibility he could be a future client. Maybe I’ll drop him a business card.’
‘Jesus!’ Did she not have an off switch? ‘Haven’t you heard of not judging a book by its cover?’
‘That’s the biggest load of woke nonsense. Books have very carefully designed coversspecificallyso that we can judge them at a glance. People are the same. Although, that’s only my initial assessment—’
‘Pigeonhole.’ He could be every bit as awkward as her.
She ignored his correction. ‘To make a more detailed evaluation, I’d need to open the book … or, in this case, speak with your friend.’
‘Or not,’ he muttered. Last thing Ethan needed was a lawyer prying into his past. ‘Don’t you think that perhaps people are more complex than your snap judgements allow for?’
‘Rarely,’ Jemma said. ‘But that’s where evidence comes into play.’
‘So we’re arbitrarily assigned the label you choose and guilty until proven otherwise?’
‘Not all of us get to spend our lives watching crops grow, you know.’ She dropped the spade and put her hands on her narrow hips, and he had a juvenile flash of satisfaction as he noticed more mud transfer onto those magic pants. ‘For some of us, the ability to evaluate a person’s character is crucial—character is always the motivator for action.’
‘Except in crimes of passion.’
‘Wrong.’ Although she’d assumed a defiant stance, Jemma’s eyes sparkled. ‘Violence is a choice; passion is never an excuse. And again, it takes a certain character type to commit the crime.’
‘Isn’t that more forensic psychology than lawyer stuff?’
