Page 139 of The Wright Man

"Might need to tap in," she muttered. Light, but something about her voice caught me off guard. Not quite a joke. Not quite serious either. But it landed heavy.

I caught it.

"You wanna try somethin'? One of the techniques I use with my clients?"

Her eyes lit up. "You mean I’m not just here for the aesthetics?"

"Less talkin', more healing. C'mon."

I held up the gloves and gave her a small nod toward the heavy bag. "It's simple," I told her, keeping my voice low and steady. "Every punch, you let something out. Doesn't matter what it is—anger, grief, shame... all the shit you've been carrying."

She nodded in understanding.

"No pulling punches. The more you exert yourself, the more shit rises to the surface, the more you let go… So hit like your healing depends on it." I met her eyes, made sure she felt me. "Because it does."

I helped her put the gloves on, smirking. “You look adorable.”

She lifted one hand.

"You can't see it," she said, "but I'm flipping you off right now."

I grinned. "Stop yappin'. Start punchin'."

She did. Light at first. Playful.

"My client this morning pissed me off."

Punch.

"My coffee got cold before I could drink it."

Punch.

"My Doordasher stole my Hot Cheetos."

Punch.

I arched a brow. "Angelica..."

"I really wanted those Cheetos!" she argued.

I gave her that look. The one that always shut her bullshit down.

Her smile faded. Her shoulders dropped, and she started again.

"I miss my sisters."

Punch.

"I don't feel like myself when they're not around."

Punch.

"I'm so goddamn lonely."

Punch.

"Boyd called me Mrs. Riddle."