Page 78 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

The door opened into a decently-sized living room painted in a soft green with brown couches and a storage cabinet full of knick-knacks.

“What is it?” Gav asked, watching me.

“Is it just me, or does this sort of… scream woman? I mean, the linen drapes, the throw pillows, the rug, all the little figurines,” I waved toward the cabinet. “I know my dad. Or, at least, I think I know him well enough to say that it would never occur to him to match the accent colors in the pillows and carpets to the main color of the drapes.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he picked up a new hobby. I have curtains and extra blankets.”

“Sure, but your apartment still feels very masculine. This feels feminine to me.”

“Maybe your father has a woman in his life.”

“Maybe,” I agreed. “It would make sense why he felt he needed a house. And to work for you to pay for it. It doesn’t explain why he felt the need to keep his relationship from me.”

“Maybe he didn’t want you to think he was trying to replace your mom?”

“Maybe. I mean, I’m a grown woman. I understand that most people don’t stay single forever. No matter how much they loved their dead spouse.”

“Yeah, but he sees you as his little girl. He could be thinking he’s protecting you. Come on. Let’s look around.”

We made our way into a kitchen that further confirmed my suspicions. There were floral mugs in the cabinet, a claw clip forgotten on the counter, and sugar-free caramel coffee creamer in the fridge.

By the time we made it into the bedroom, I didn’t need to look in the closet to know a woman lived there. But that didn’t stop Gav from looking for me.

“Is that her?” he asked as I picked up a framed picture of my father’s happy face beaming back at me. His face was pressed against that of a woman.

She was around his age, with dyed black hair, light blue eyes, and a round face.

“I guess.”

“What is it?” he asked when I kept staring.

“I don’t know. There’s something familiar about her.”

“Maybe she was another trucker?”

“Maybe.”

There were a lot more female truckers out there than there used to be, but it was still a small community. I felt like I would have remembered her if that was why she looked familiar. The women often were chattier with me, sometimes even taking me to buy feminine care products when I felt weird about doing it with my dad, or showing me their cab set-ups that they managed to make feel cozy and homey.

“Take a picture of that,” Gav instructed. “We can see if Zeno can track her down, get more information.”

“There are no papers here with her name or anything?” I asked after taking a picture and setting the frame back down.

“Nothing. So she probably doesn’t live here. Just crashes when your father is around.”

“But then how does the place look so good when no one has been here?”

“Maybe your dad has a lawn service.”

“Yeah. Did you find anything?”

“A few bills. In your dad’s name. Some repair receipts for the tractor. And a few receipts for storage units.”

“Storage units. As in multiple?” My father had gone most of his life not owning anything. I couldn’t fathom him accumulating enough over the past few years to fill up even half a unit, let alone more than one.

“Yeah. In different states.”

There was a tightness around the edges of his words. But I was a little too dumbfounded to analyze it.