Page 52 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

“You have a one-bedroom apartment.”

“I could have moved. I make a decent living.” Decent enough to live alone in an extremely expensive city. If my father needed a place to stay, I could move. Or move out of the city and get a little house rental or something.

“Speaking as a man, I figure there’s a lot of pride at play. He came across an easy way to make sure he could provide for himself into his old age.”

“Look where that got him.”

“Hey, I’ve been real with you—”

“I remember some lies.”

“Would I be here with you if I was responsible for your father’s disappearance?”

“Okay. Probably not.”

“Definitely not. The fuck would I waste my time like that for?”

“Alright. I’ll stop being suspicious of that,” I decided. “But I don’t know. I don’t think my father would keep something like a health issue from me. I already knew he was trying to get healthy. He used to tell me all his meals each day to hold himself accountable. And he would take walks when he called to talk to me. It just makes no sense if it was because of his heart that he wouldn’t just… say that.”

“You know him better than I do,” he conceded. “Just trying to come up with the most plausible scenarios.”

“I know. I just—that was fast.”

“Figure this late, shit is just getting reheated,” Gav said, going to the door as he reached for his wallet.

He rolled the tray in, glancing pointedly at the ice cream sandwiches I’d ordered.

“They’re for later,” I said, grabbing them and shoving them into the minuscule freezer in the mini fridge.

“You didn’t even eat yet, what do you need that for?” Gav asked as I reached for the bottle of chalky antacids.

“This is going to sound stupid but the pasta sauce on the pizza will absolutely start some nonsense if I don’t stop it in its tracks.”

“Ever try an elimination diet?”

“Yeah.” I popped a tablet in my mouth and chewed. “The problem is, it made me miserable in a different way. At least this way, I still get some joy with my food. Even if I sometimes suffer, too.”

“Guess that’s fair,” he said, reaching for a slice of the pepperoni pizza. “I would be pretty miserable not being able to have pizza here and there. Even if this is not pizza,” he said, nose wrinkling up as he chewed.

I took a slice of the plain and shrugged. “I used to make those little personal pizzas you get for like a dollar right out of the microwave.”

“All gummy and shit?”

“Yep. Folded the whole thing in half and ate it like a slice.”

“Be honest. You didn’t ‘use to’ do that. You still do.”

My lips twitched before the smile won out.

“Had one the night before I came to your house. While I was painting the tip of the fake gun.”

“In a city full of cheap slices of the best pizza in the world, that’s a crime.”

“The guy at the closest pizza place hits on me relentlessly. And once tried to follow me home.”

“He what?”

“Yeah. I noticed his reflection in the storefronts as I passed, so I went into the closest convenience store instead. Waited until he left. Never went back.”