Page 27 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

I heard the crinkle of a bag, then my key in the lock.

Then there she was, looking paler and more red-eyed than when she’d left. She had two bags in her hand and a cast on her dominant wrist.

“Don’t gloat,” she warned as she pulled off the tape.

“I didn’t say anything.”

She brought the bags over to the table, pausing to sniff the air. Likely smelling the cologne I’d put on after my shower—a habit I was so used to I did it without thinking.

But she shook it off as the scent wafting from one of the bags drifted over to me. Something carb-rich and umami. Chinese food, if I knew my takeout. And I did.

“Simple fracture?”

“Yeah. I’m in this for six weeks. Then I’m going to need physical therapy.”

“I’d apologize for my hard head, but you were the one who punched me.”

Caitlin sighed and dropped down into the seat. “Can you just… not right now?” She went to bury her head in her hands, remembered her cast, then just hung her head instead.

“What happened?”

She shook her head, not wanting to talk about it as she squeezed her eyes shut. The image must have been tattooed beneath her lids, though, because they shot back open and she sighed.

“An ambulance was coming in as I was leaving.”

“Bad?”

“Really, really bad,” she said, pressing a hand to her mouth. “And he had his teen daughter in the ambulance, and she was screaming and crying and…”

And she was thinking of her own missing father, thinking I had him in some dungeon somewhere, having hot pokers jabbed into his body or something. I was suddenly regretting the teasing about the torture the night before. She was probably picturing all that shit happening to her old man now.

“Was he conscious?” I asked.

“What? Yeah. Yeah, he was trying to tell her to calm down.”

“Then he’s probably gonna be all right.”

“There was so much blood,” she said, swallowing hard.

“He was breathing. He was conscious. He was present enough to try to comfort his daughter.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, taking a few deep breaths.

“Did you get some meds?”

“Yeah.”

“You should take them.”

“I need to eat first. I get sick if I take pain medicine on an empty stomach.”

She stood and reached for the to-go bag, pulling out several cartons of—yep, I called it—Chinese food.

She walked away, digging around in my cutlery drawer, and coming back with two forks.

Neither of us said anything as she opened a container of lo mein, twirled a fork in it, and shoved it into her mouth. I swear you could see the stress leaving her shoulders at the first bite. Somehow, I bet she was one of those women who—when they weren’t in a hostage situation—danced a little when she got her food.

She ate four forkfuls before she grabbed the extra fork, twirled, then held the food out toward my mouth.