Page 42 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

I didn’t need to be asked again. I handed over the keys, watching Gavino’s brows pinch at my loaded keychain. Not with keys. I only had my apartment, car, and my father’s tractor keys. But I had half a dozen little charms dangling from it, including an old green-haired lucky troll in a leopard leotard from when I was a kid.

He said nothing as he sat in the driver’s seat, waiting for me to move all the junk off the passenger seat before climbing in.

“What is it about the bridge that bothers you?” he asked as he backed out of the space in a smooth, one-armed move I found a lot more appealing than I should have.

“It’s too many lanes, too long, too packed, too hectic. And there’s no escaping. You’re just trapped on that thing once you’re on it.” I felt a shiver move up my spine at just the thought of it.

“Is it better on the lower level?”

“In some ways, yes. In others, no. Because it does quiet those thoughts about being driven right off the bridge and crashing into the water below. But it also feels a lot more claustrophobic.”

“Well, we will go the lower level so you don’t have to worry we’ll plummet to our deaths. You can just keep your eyes closed if the claustrophobia gets bad.”

He said it so casually. Like it was no big deal. Like he wasn’t judging me for my very irrational fears.

Even my father, the saint that he was, would sometimes remind me that I was irrational and that I just needed to ‘not think about it.’

“Okay,” I agreed, nodding.

I grabbed my phone out of my purse, connecting it to the radio and spent the next several minutes curating a playlist that I hoped would keep me calm as we drew closer to the bridge.

I tried to focus on the Hudson, the way the sun danced across the blue surface, making it shimmer.

Maybe I should have insisted we wait to leave until the sun set. I’d never wanted to drive on the bridge at night for about a thousand reasons my anxiety convinced me were possible, but I could see the darkness being an asset as a passenger.

A horn blew, making me jolt hard enough to make Gavino tense.

“They’re not honking at us.”

Cold crept up my spine as I reached over to crank the music louder.

“God, it’s packed.”

Gavino glanced over as we crept to a crawl.

“It’s ten or twenty minutes, max,” he reminded me. “You can get through just about anything for twenty minutes.”

He was right.

It might suck.

I might panic.

But in just a few minutes, it would be over.

We drove under the bridge, the world closing in tightly around us.

He was right. The heavy steel beams on the side did manage to erase my fear of driving off the bridge and plummeting to my death. But the claustrophobia of it intensified the further onto the bridge we drove. The air in the car felt like it got thicker, harder to breathe.

“Why don’t I have an address for your father?”

“What?” I asked, my voice breathless.

“Your old man. He didn’t give us an address when he started working for us.”

“Oh, um. He doesn’t have an address.”

“Everyone has an address.”