“How long?”
He stopped and turned to me, paused, then walked right up to me and cocked his head to the side.
“Get your facts straight before you walk around demanding answers with a gun in your hand.”
He easily wrapped his hand around the wrist that held the gun.
“You need a shower,” he said again.
“Can’t stand your own smell?”
His eyes narrowed, and he forced the weapon out of my hand.
“It’s mine!” I followed him to the dresser, trying to reach around him to get it when he opened a drawer and set it inside.
He caught my wrists and walked me backward a few steps.
“You need to keep your shit together, and you need to have a fucking shower.”
“It’s mine,” I said again, looking up into his eyes, blue-gray pools so deep, I could lose myself inside them if I wasn’t careful.
“I’m not taking it away. It’s yours. Come on.”
His voice was quiet, as if talking down a child throwing a tantrum.
He walked me into the bathroom and ran water into the tub. The first time he’d bathed me came rushing back, and I pulled away. But he kept hold of my wrist and held me there.
“Relax. Do you want me to give you something to relax?”
“Your little pills? No, thank you.”
“Then be a good girl and get in the tub.”
I glanced at the tub filling up with water, saw him check the temperature and adjust it.
“In.”
“I want this off too.” I pointed to the collar.
“And I told you once before, it will come off when I’m ready to take it off.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I need you to keep your shit together if we’re going to get the bastards who killed Mateo and branded you.”
I took in his words, studying him, his face, his eyes. He gestured once more to the tub and released my wrist when I climbed in. And I remembered something.
“You have a daughter.”
He stopped, as if that were the last thing he expected me to say. Then he nodded once and brought over a bottle of body wash and a washcloth. He sat on the edge of the tub, dipped the cloth inside, and rung it out before squeezing body wash onto it. He began to lather my neck and back.
“Effie. She’s eleven now.”
His face looked so sad right then. It was like the man I’d glimpsed last night, the one who hurt. The broken one.
“I haven’t seen her in a long time. Almost seven years.”
“Why?”
