Page 22 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

“I don’t know where your father is.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

I wasn’t sure I’d ever hit anything in anger before, but my fist slammed down on the table hard enough to make our cups jump.

But Gavino didn’t even flinch. His eyelid didn’t even twitch.

As if I needed more evidence that he was a cold, hard, experienced killer.

“What do I have to gain by lying to you?” he asked, his tone inappropriately calm in the face of my anger. “You’re the one with all the power here.”

“That’s right. I am.” Though, I got this strange, twitchy feeling in my head I couldn’t ignore that seemed to suggest the exact opposite was true. That he had all the power.

But, no.

That wasn’t even possible.

He was handcuffed and zip-tied.

He thought I had a real gun.

I had the power and he knew it.

He was just all bluster. Guys like him were used to being in control, to having people kiss their ring. His pride was probably bruised. So he was acting like he wasn’t my literal prisoner.

I reached for the gun.

“Let’s try this again. What did you do to my father?”

“I didn’t do anything to your father.”

I couldn’t claim to be the patient saint my father was. I got frustrated by the littlest of things. My internet glitching. Not being able to find something I swore I put somewhere. The batteries going low in my remote just when I sat down to watch something. The littlest things could get a rise out of me.

But I wasn’t typically quick to outward anger. I was the sort to bottle it all up and implode.

So it was a real shock to me just as much as Gavino when I closed the distance, cocked back, and swung.

“Jesus Christ!” I yelped, pulling my fist against my chest and cradling it with my other hand as the pain exploded across my knuckles, up my arm, and all the way into my shoulder.

Gavino’s tongue flicked out, licking the drip of blood from his lip from where my fist collided into it.

“Your elbow and shoulder need to be lined up before you make contact.”

“What?” I asked, letting out another really embarrassing whimper, but as the adrenaline was wearing off, the pain in my wrist didn’t feel quite so minor. It was throbbing, little thumps in time with my heartbeat.

“Your elbow and shoulder weren’t in line, which made your wrist bend on impact. You took the brunt of that, not me.”

“Are you… teaching me how to throw a punch?”

“Yeah.”

“When I’m punching you?”

His split lip curved up slightly at that.

“Well, I need you to be able to work the handcuff key eventually. You can’t do that with two broken wrists.”

“Do you think it’s broken?” I asked.