Page 115 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

“Okay. Just a couple minutes, I promise.”

He leaned in, kissed my forehead, then closed me in.

I squeezed myself against the door furthest from where the kid was mutilating himself. I hummed to myself, breathed deeply, then when all that failed, I did something that felt unnatural. I focused in on my pain: my wrist, face, stomach, and head. Until it was all I could think of—the stabbing, throbbing, aching pain.

I was so focused that I let out a shriek when the front door opened and the kid slid in. Pale, sweaty, but still walking around.

“Hey. Caitlin, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Zaro,” he said, going to offer his hand before remembering the blood. “I guess I can thank you for saving me, huh?”

“And I should thank you for getting shot for me. Are you okay?”

“Just a scratch,” he said, shrugging.

“But you were… digging,” I said, gulping hard.

“Hardly the worst I’ve ever been hurt. Looks like you got roughed up too.”

“By the guy I shot,” I admitted.

“He really had it coming then, huh? Here they come.”

Before I could even find the group of men, the other side of the car was opening and my father was sliding in.

“Looks like this is gonna be the hospital car tonight,” my father said as he slid in.

Someone had applied a makeshift dressing to his arm. And while a small bit of blood seeped through, it looked like it was mostly done.

“Are you okay?”

“Just fine, Nugget. But look at you.” He reached out, tipping up my chin. “That bastard did it, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“Check out the back of her head,” Gav said as he slid into the front seat.

“It’s fine. Just a couple stitches.”

“And a re-broken wrist,” Gav added.

“You’re not helping,” I told him.

“He deserves to know.”

“Wait, are we leaving?” I asked when Gav turned over the SUV and started to back up.

“Yeah. We are heading back to the city so your father and Zaro can go to Salvatore.”

That was maybe the only thing he could have said to make me agree to leaving before I had all the answers I wanted.

“Dad, I can do that,” I objected when my father reached across me to grab my belt and fasten it.

He ignored that as he fastened his own belt.