Holding Her Hand (The Reed Brothers 9)

The doors open on my floor and I let us into my apartment.

“I need to call for security to come and pick me up,” she says as she pulls her phone out of her pocket.

I nod at her and start to rummage in the fridge for the makings of a sandwich. I make two—one for me and one for her—and I wrap hers in a paper towel. Then I set a bottle of water on the counter beside her sandwich and wait for her to get off the phone.

“They’re on the way,” she says. “What’s your address?”

I tell her and she relays the info.

I point to the sandwich, indicating that it’s for her. She grabs it and bites into it, her eyes closing as she chews. “Thank you,” she says, after she swallows and puts the rest of the sandwich down. “I was hungrier than I thought.”

She leans over the counter and picks at the meat on her sandwich, and that’s when I see it. That’s when I know.

Her glove has slipped down toward her wrist, and I can see what she didn’t want me to see earlier. My wrapping her upper arm in plastic after her tattoo probably didn’t help the gloves stay up any. I know she wouldn’t want me to see. I pretend to clean the countertop rather than look at it, but over and over, my eyes fall back to it.

Finally, I can’t stand it anymore.

“How old were you?” I ask.

“What?” she asks, her brow furrowing.

“How old were you?” I ask again, and I point to where her glove has slipped down.

She jerks it up, but she knows I know. “It’s not what you think,” she rushes to say, her hands franticly signing.

“How old were you?” I ask again, because I really want to know the answer.

She heaves out a breath. I can feel it where I’m standing.

“Fifteen,” she says.

“Can I see it?” I ask.

“No.” She shakes her head and steps back from me.

“I want to see if I can cover it up.”

“I don’t need it covered,” she says. “I can wear shorter gloves when you finish my upper arms. No big deal.”

“Why don’t you just let me see it?” I ask. I pick her hand up by her wrist, trying to be tender and careful.

“I don’t want anyone to know,” she says, and then she closes her eyes. But she doesn’t fight me when I start to roll her glove down. I take it all the way down to her fingers and then slip it completely off. Her fingers are long and slim and I clasp her tiny hand in my large one.

She has five slash scars across her wrist.

“What did you use?” I talk with one hand while I hold her wrist with the other.

“The jagged edge of a broken mirror.”

A tear rolls down her cheek.

“Please don’t tell anyone.” She’s pleading with her eyes.

I let her hand drop and take her face in my hands so I can look into her eyes. And then I use my voice. I don’t speak often because I’ve been told I’m very hard to understand. But for her, I’ll do it. “I won’t say a word.”

I swipe her tears away with my thumbs, just like I did in the tattoo shop. I have a sudden and irresistible urge to kiss her.

She jumps and looks toward the door. Someone must be knocking. I hand her glove back to her and she pulls it on and up.