Chapter 9: The Wrist

Elliot's truck pulled up at the lamppost four minutes later, and the white sedan was already gone.

He did not ask me anything until I was buckled in.

Then he said, in a very level voice, "Who follows a woman to her ex-husband's workplace and films her?"

"Brynn."

"Right." His knuckles shifted on the wheel. "I'd like to meet Brynn."

"You won't enjoy it."

"I wasn't planning to."

I told him what Dean had said, in about six sentences.

He listened with his eyes on the road.

When I got to the part about the text on my birthday, his jaw tightened, but he said only, "She planned it. The whole walk-in."

"Yes."

"Five years ago."

"Yes."

"And you didn't know."

"I was busy," I said, "bleeding."

He did not laugh.

He reached over and turned the heat up.

Margo was at bingo.

The kitchen was empty, with a note on the fridge that said EAT THE CASSEROLE, and a blue bowl of oranges.

Elliot sat me at the table, pulled up a chair and took my splinted wrist in both hands.

"The wrap's loose," he said. "You've been using it to open doors."

"Only twice."

"Three times," he said.

He unwound the elastic bandage slowly, and the skin underneath was gray where the swelling had gone down.

He was gentle about it.

His fingers were warm and rough and exact, and his thumb rested against the inside of my wrist where the pulse is.

I felt my pulse jump against it.

I looked away.

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