Page 7 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

Ira, like a lot of my father’s trucking buddies, was not a super affectionate guy. So the shoulder squeeze he gave me was as close to a hug as I was going to get.

I made my way out of the office, walking down the yard, trying to act like nothing was going on. Meanwhile, my mind was short-circuiting.

Why was there a second phone?

What was on it?

I tried to latch onto the most reasonable explanations. It was an old phone; he got a new model. A friend left it there. Maybe a girlfriend did.

I wasn’t naive enough to think there was never a woman in my father’s life after my mom’s death. I mean, he’d avoided it while I’d been living with him. But it seemed impossible that he didn’t date once I moved on to my own adult life.

I refused to let myself reach for the phone. Not until I was in privacy. Not until I could focus.

Never drive distracted, Nugget. Promise me.

The bag felt ten times heavier than it had when I left my car. I set it on the backseat so I wasn’t tempted to reach for it on the long drive back to my place.

There was no stopping the distraction, though. My mind spun in endless circles until I felt sick.

I pulled into a parking spot and sat there, heart racing, as I realized I couldn’t remember stopping at a single light or abiding by any street sign.

“Okay. Alright. Relax,” I reminded myself, but I took a turn around my car to make sure there was no damage before grabbing the bag and making my way into my place.

I barely managed to close and lock the door before I was rooting around for the cell phone.

It took two seconds to go to the call log, finding a lot of incoming and outgoing calls to the same number.

There were texts from the same person as well. But all that seemed to be exchanged were dates and locations.

Hookups?

Was this the mystery woman?

I scrolled and scrolled, going back two years. But not a single text included anything but times and dates.

I closed out of that, opening each social media app. But they must have come downloaded on the phone because he wasn’t signed into anything. Not even an email account.

I was about to give up on it when one final app caught my eye.

A notepad.

I was so low on hope of finding anything—unless I called the anonymous number—that all I felt as I brought it up was a sinking feeling.

But then, a note.

Not much of one.

Not even a note, really.

Just a name.

Gavino Costa.

Well, I guess I knew who I needed to talk to.

I just had to track him down and ask him to sit down and talk to me.

Easy peasy.