Page 98 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

But I clutched my bag to my chest, rushed past them, and fled the garage.

I didn’t need the police.

I didn’t even want the hospital, despite everything hurting more with each passing moment.

I just wanted Gav.

That was all I could think of.

Getting to him.

Head ducked to ignore any looks from strangers as I walked down the street, I fumbled in my bag, shuffling through my various items. But my phone wasn’t there.

I couldn’t call Gav.

I choked back a sob, trying to hold it together.

I wasn’t that far from his place.

I could tolerate the looks and the pain just a little longer if it meant that when I got there, I could feel Gav’s arms around me. Could hear him reassuring me that I was going to be okay, that he was going to take care of me.

That was all I could focus on as a migraine knifed through my skull, making the setting sun feel like it was carving its way into my brain.

My stomach ached.

My wrist throbbed.

My face was like a deep, aching bruise.

But I managed to keep myself walking all the way to his front door, where I stabbed my finger into Gav’s intercom. To no avail.

Desperation had me hitting half a dozen other units and, finally, the door unlocked.

I surged inside, cursing Gav’s antisocial ways as I fell against the wall in the elevator. My legs were starting to shake.

The relief of being close to help had the adrenaline flowing away, leaving nothing but the anxious, unsteady aftermath.

I threw out my good arm to use the wall for support as I crept along the hallway toward Gav’s apartment door.

Where I knocked.

And knocked.

And called out to him.

But no one came.

On a cry, I turned and slid down the wall, too exhausted, too in pain, to do anything but sit on the floor, legs pulled to my chest, body curled forward, and cry.

I don’t know how long I sat there just like that, my mind shooting off in a million different directions. None of them leading anywhere good.

My father.

His girlfriend.

Ira.

The Costas.