It was Norah Jones’ fault. Though, the Judge didn’t see it that way. Nor the Jury.
The drone of that musical whining brought on the overwhelming urge to tighten her grip. To ignore shapely legs and pedicured toes thrashing.
All those endless hours rubbing and squeezing the sleek, oiled bodies of strangers had done something extraordinary. It had made Helen’s plump hands capable of a lumberjack’s strength.