Page 6 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

No signs to point to mental decline or drug use. No evidence of foul play. I mean, I was no detective. But I consumed enough true crime content to make me reasonably sure I would recognize anything that pointed to a struggle.

Everything was just how I remembered it. The same collection of clothes so faded from use and washing that they were buttery soft. The same brand of toothpaste. He had a used copy of some noir novel—the cover featuring a woman spilling out of a yellow dress and a man in the glow of an open door with the shadow of a gun in his hand.

My father had never been a big reader, but he did like his old-school detective novels. I found them dry and more than a little misogynistic. But I took the book and tucked it into my bag as well.

I would have to come back and box up all his things eventually. But I wasn’t quite ready to accept that it was time for me to do that. I just wanted to grab some things that I could pore over to look for any kind of clues. Which was why I also grabbed his phone, even though I doubted he knew how to use anything on it aside from the call button. He wasn’t someone who had a tablet or a laptop.

I was just about to climb back out of the bunk to the cab when something shiny caught my eye.

It wasn’t something that had fallen behind the seat or fell into a door pocket.

No.

It was carefully stashed down the side of the bed. So deep in there that it had to be deliberate.

I reached for it, feeling my pulse skip as my hand closed around a very familiar shape.

A cell phone.

My father had a second cell phone hidden in his bunk.

“How’s it going in there?” Ira, my dad’s boss, called from the driver’s side door.

I panicked, shoving the phone in my bag then climbing out between the seats.

“You were right,” I told him as I fell into my dad’s seat, then climbed out of the truck. “There’s really nothing here.”

“I wish you found something,” Ira said, reaching up to grab the brim of his hat, adjusting it on his head. “This is just so bizarre.”

“I know. I don’t know what to think. Nothing makes sense. Thanks for letting me come here.”

“It’s Daniel’s truck,” Ira said, shrugging. “It belongs to you now.”

My stomach hurt at that.

I didn’t want his truck.

I wanted him.

“Is it okay if I leave it parked here for just a little bit still? I really hope we can find him and he can come get it himself.”

“Of course, Nugget.” Nugget. That was what my father called me, what all the truckers called me. Mostly because I went through a whole year-long period where I barely ate anything but nuggets. “Daniel was family. Is. He is family. We’re all saying prayers that he comes home safe.”

“Thanks, Ira.”

“Do you need something? Can I do anything for you?”

I needed a hug.

A shoulder to cry on.

My father back.

“I can’t think of anything right now. But if I do, you’ll be the first person I call.”

Ira was the closest thing I had to family with my father gone. He’d been an ever-present part of my childhood. Each time my father finished a job or started one, we spent time with Ira. Once, when my father got really sick, we crashed at Ira’s place so he didn’t have to tough it out in the bunk or a motel room.

“Good. Do that. And call just to call, okay? I’m here.”