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Jack stood. He walked towards her, a smoking cigar in one hand and one of the empty rattraps in the other. Meredith’s lips drooped the closer he got. She saw the noticeable, purpling flesh on the hand that held the trap.

“What the hell is the meaning of this?” He held the sprung trap out to Meredith. His hand swelling and a thin red line running across the tops of his fingers.

“You should have a doctor look at that.”

“It was in my cigar box, Meredith.”

“Your fingers could be broken.”

“Is this some sick attempt to get my attention? You’ve certainly got it now.” He said. Jack towered over Meredith, his eyes narrowed.

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