She took a step toward me. “You don’t understand. There are things I have to do. Things I have to sort out. I don’t have time to waste talking to the police. I can’t get involved with them. I’ve got some plastic in the garage, we could wrap him up, find someplace to dump him—”

“Trixie!”

I guess she was unaccustomed to hearing me raise my voice, to actually shout. Her eyes danced for a second, and she focused on me as though seeing me for the first time.

“Trixie, we are not hiding the body. You’re not hiding it, and I’m not helping you. You have to tell me what the hell is going on. Who’s done this? Who did this to Benson?” I paused a moment. “You didn’t do it, did you?”

“You think I’m capable of this? Of this?” Her arm flung out in the direction of Benson. “You don’t know me better than to think I would do something like that?”

“There seems to be a lot I don’t know about you, Trixie. Like what’s written on that note. Why you were so scared for your picture to show up in the paper. Why those guys selling stun guns put you on edge. Does this have something to do with Canborough, Trixie? Something that happened five years ago?”

She blinked.

“Is this all related to three bikers getting killed? Did you see something that night, Trixie? Are you on the run? Are you some kind of a witness?”

“What have you been doing? Have you been checking up on me? What gives you the right to start poking into my personal affairs and—”

“Trixie, forget about that. We have to call the police. They can protect you. They can get whoever did this to Benson, they can make it so you don’t have to be on the run.”

Trixie appeared to be weighing her options. “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “I can’t keep living this way.”

I smiled. “Okay. Let’s go upstairs. I’ll make the call if you want.”

“Maybe you should,” she said, and reached out for my hand.

It happened so fast, I never had a chance to react.

As she slapped a cuff around my right wrist, she pulled my body toward her, yanking my right arm forward toward the base of the stair handrail, onto which she snapped the matching cuff.

Thrown off balance, I shouted, “Jesus Christ! Trixie, what the hell are you doing?”

She jumped back, afraid that I might try to grab her with my free arm. I yanked my right arm and the handcuffs jangled, cut into my wrist. The handrail held firm. I shook it several times, unable to believe my predicament. When I looked back at Trixie, she was holding a second pair of cuffs.