{"id":4430,"date":"2013-09-26T11:32:31","date_gmt":"2013-09-26T11:32:31","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/?p=4430"},"modified":"2013-09-30T11:38:25","modified_gmt":"2013-09-30T11:38:25","slug":"dixon-grace-1-9-7-hamburg-by-alexa-camouro","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/?p=4430","title":{"rendered":"Dixon Grace: 1.9.7 Hamburg by Alexa Camouro"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>Published by Rippple Books 1 October 2013<\/strong><\/p>\n

Rippple Books – yes, 3 p’s, standing\u00a0for ‘producer to public publishing’\u00a0is a publisher of challenging\u00a0English-language books based in Germany.<\/p>\n

One of its first titles is a political thriller featuring Dixon Grace, an Australian of Indian descent living in Hamburg. She shares a flat with her boyfriend and teaches English to local workers. She’s beautiful, smart and stylish. And she’s a dangerous international spy – or is she?<\/p>\n

An inspiring, audacious heroine; a wittier, edgier, female James Bond delivering supercool one-liners and sassy comebacks,\u00a0Dixon skilfully dodges her way through the maze of international intelligence out to snare her.<\/p>\n

Now sample this fast-paced international page-turner for yourself.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Landeskriminalamt,Hamburg<\/p>\n

15 September, 2011, 8:16am<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The room is rectangular. Not very big, but it feels big because there\u2019s just one table and two chairs. Plastic chairs in black, a metal table with a vinyl covering that looks sticky, that\u2019s stained with the rings of coffee cups and water glasses.<\/p>\n

The usual standard stuff in a room that\u2019s mostly off-limits. Nothing fancy or comfortable or aesthetically pleasing.<\/p>\n

Function over form,\u2019 she says softly, looking down at the floor and seeing small holes where a chair \u2013 a special chair \u2013 could be bolted down.<\/p>\n

She\u2019s sitting in one of the black plastic chairs, slouching really, arms folded, and wearing clothes thrown over her baggy sleeping underwear; her sleeping costume, as Astrid would call it.<\/p>\n

They hadn\u2019t allowed her to get dressed. No bra. No shoes. Not even a chance for a morning pee.<\/p>\n

What a way to wake up, she thinks. But where was Ben? Why hadn\u2019t he been there when they came, when they stormed in with helmets on and automatic weapons raised? Oh, but he\u2019ll be pissed all right. They kicked the door down.<\/p>\n

This makes her smile, then she shakes her head.<\/p>\n

Come on, she tells herself. The room. Focus on the room. It\u2019s about four metres by three by three. So, an area of twelve square, volume of thirty-six cubic. Like the business class section of a plane, roomy and high-ceilinged. No. The ceiling\u2019s too high. Because all those plane designers are little people, building claustrophobic cabins with tight seats and limited leg room, big enough for them but no one else. Kids maybe.<\/p>\n

She knows this. She toured the interiors department, had a class with six Hobbit-sized cabin designers. For the first lesson, they even sat in two lines of three, one behind the other, chairs close together and shoulders almost touching, like they were on a flight somewhere. She laughs a little.<\/p>\n

Stop it, she says to herself. The room. Concentrate. That mirror on the wall. They\u2019re watching.<\/p>\n

She decides the room is more swimming pool than airplane interior. An upside-down pool, replete with greyish-blue walls and ametallic, chemical smell. Chlorine dried by the sun; the backyard pool of a foreclosed house left to rot in a Melbourne suburb. The result of a financial bubble bursting, some sub-division contracting company going bankrupt, the houses half-built, with all those young couples now riddled with debt and living with their parents again, or bunking in a caravan in front of a friend\u2019s house. The Australian dream gone horribly wrong.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s better, she thinks. Run with that. Feel the sadness and loss. The anger. All those people drowning in an ocean of debt, the way I\u2019m drowning in this upside-down pool. All those people who went after something and failed, or had it taken away from them, wrestled away at gun-point, woken at dawn by half a dozen guys in riot gear who shout \u2018Keine Bewegung\u2019 when you\u2019re still asleep, then cuff you and haul you away. And you can\u2019t shout or protest because your mouth is still furry with sleep and you\u2019re somewhere between dreamland and reality and you\u2019d been having the nicest dream of empty beaches and softly peeling waves and gulls squawking and you could almost taste the salt of the water on your tongue and that\u2019s the place where you most want to be.<\/p>\n

Not here. Not in this room. Not even in this country.<\/p>\n

Having lost the focus, she rubs at her wrists, to try again. She wonders why they cuffed her, like she\u2019s some criminal mastermind they chased halfway across Europe; some massive deployment that required the coordination of police forces from several countries. Car chases, jumping out of trains at high speed, false IDs, disguises, Swiss bank accounts, that sort of thing.<\/p>\n

And she wonders why they said nothing, except \u2018Keine Bewegung.\u2019 Didn\u2019t say what she\u2019s done, just barged in and dragged her from the bed. Some slight act of mercy meant she had a millisecond to throw on pants and a shirt.<\/p>\n

Then cuffed.<\/p>\n

At least they didn\u2019t use those plastic handcuffs, she thinks. The ones which cut off the circulation and leave red welts that take years to disappear, making people think you tried to commit suicide once.<\/p>\n

So, that works in their favour. Old-fashioned, dangling, S&M cuffs. And they weren\u2019t rough, either. Another plus. They were just … brisk. Yeah, that\u2019s it. Brisk. In a hurry, as if someone was timing them. A training drill.<\/p>\n

She shakes her head. \u2018This must be some kind of mistake,\u2019 she says to the mirror.<\/p>\n

God, I look awful, she thinks, running her hands through her stilsleep-matted hair.<\/p>\n

She hates the stringy feel of the blonde dye job. And it needs to be re-dyed.<\/p>\n

She runs her hands through it again, nearly pulling the hair from its roots. What it needs, she thinks, is a double wash and a hundred brush strokes. Double wash and a hundred brush strokes. The way mum had done it. Brush out all the crap, brush the blonde away, get back to the roots. Such beautiful hair, until she cut it all off and left. She starts to cry. She focuses harder. The memories, the loss, all the things she missed out on, things she didn\u2019t get.<\/p>\n

Real tears come and she doesn\u2019t wipe them away. They run down her cheeks and drip onto her shirt.<\/p>\n

The door opens. She sits up straight and gathers herself.<\/p>\n

‘Morgen.\u2019<\/p>\n

He\u2019s a big man, and he seems to fill the room, breathing in deeply and sucking the air out of it. He\u2019s a bit paunchy, heavy all over, but not fat. Solid. She wonders if he was an athlete when he was younger. He has that filled out look of a guy who played a lot of sport, then was happy to stop going to training, to let himself go. Now, he\u2019s kilos in three figures. A muscular lump.<\/p>\n

He\u2019s dressed in new cheap clothes, the kind of stuff that hangs on massive racks at discount department stores. Stuff that\u2019s sorted by colour and always on sale. Clothes made of plastic. On him, they don\u2019t fit exactly right, and the colours don\u2019t suit him, certainly not that yellow pullover. It makes her think someone else bought the clothes for him, or ordered them from an online catalogue. A wife dressing her husband the way she wants him to look.<\/p>\n

He closes the door, then stands at the table, almost readying himself to sit down, like he doesn\u2019t quite trust the structural integrity of that little plastic chair. He has a thin blue dossier in his right hand and some kind of book or magazine. He places both on the table. She sees it\u2019s a book of logic problems, with a pen hooked into the cover. There\u2019s a folded corner, half-way through, marking the page and puzzle he\u2019s up to. Nearly every page has been dog-eared, making the top of the book fan open slightly.<\/p>\n

The man sits down slowly. The chair slides on the floor a little, but holds.<\/p>\n

‘Wie geht\u2019s?\u2019 he asks.<\/p>\n

\u2018What am I doing here? What\u2019s going on?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Moment. Moment.\u2019<\/p>\n

He zips down the ill-fitting yellow pullover and plucks a pair of glasses from the pocket of his shirt. He has big hands, meaty and swollen, with a couple of the knuckles bulging; fingers once dislocated and not quite put back into place, maybe snapping them in himself and getting it wrong.<\/p>\n

Heroin addict hands, she thinks. But he\u2019s no addict.<\/p>\n

She does not want to be touched by those hands.<\/p>\n

He puts his glasses on, pushes the book of logic problems somewhat reluctantly aside and flips open the dossier. He smoothes his moustache with a massive index finger as he reads, or pretends to read. His moustache is perfectly trimmed to the corners of his mouth.<\/p>\n

\u2018Australierin,\u2019 he says.<\/p>\n

\u2018Pardon?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018You are from Australia.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes.\u2019<\/p>\n

He looks up, thick brown eyebrows almost knitted together. \u2018Sie sprechen Deutsch, oder?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018What?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Do you speak German?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Sorry. No.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Why not?\u2019 he asks, checking the dossier again. A finger taps against the paper. \u2018You are here since nearly two years.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Well, excuse me,\u2019 she says. \u2018I never got the chance to start. And every time I tried, people spoke back to me in English.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes. Blame us for that. It is the fault of us that you cannot speak our language.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Uh-huh. You got that right.\u2019<\/p>\n

He grunts and goes back to the dossier. She sees his eyes move to the book of logic problems.<\/p>\n

\u2018You do them in English?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Hmm.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018That\u2019s a good way to practice. For learning, I mean.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I am willing to work at a new language,\u2019 he says, without looking up.<\/p>\n

\u2018Yeah, but English is the world\u2019s most illogical language. There\u2019s all these rules, then all these exceptions to the rules.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I do not understand.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019m rambling. Sorry.\u2019 She gestures at the book, happy to have something to talk about, a focus. \u2018But those are tricky, because of the double negatives and the double meanings.\u2019<\/p>\n

He checks the dossier and looks up. \u2018You are English teacher.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018And that\u2019s also why I never learned German. I speak English all day.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Is no excuse.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I guess not. Have I been arrested by the language police?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018That is not funny.\u2019 He spreads his arms in order to signify the room they\u2019re in, and says, \u2018All this, is no joke.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I know.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018And, Miss Dixon, do you know why you are here?\u2019<\/p>\n

She laughs.<\/p>\n

This makes him angry. \u2018Why are you laughing?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019m sorry. It\u2019s just so old fashioned, to call someone Miss with their first name. So Victorian, or deep south America a hundred years ago.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I do not follow.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Ah, I get it. You think Dixon\u2019s my surname.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018That is how it is written here. Grace Dixon.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s wrong,\u2019 she says. \u2018Why do you people always get my name wrong? It\u2019s Dixon Grace.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018No. It is Grace Dixon. Because it is here in the file.’<\/p>\n

She laughs incredulously. \u2018Yeah. Sure. You\u2019re freaking file is right and I\u2019m wrong. I told the git in the foreign office several times that Grace is my surname and still he put it down like this. Same with my bank card, and my insurance card. Why would you all think you\u2019d know my name better than me? Such arrogance.\u2019<\/p>\n

The man crosses his big forearms tightly, like an oversized kid in a huff. \u2018This is not a good start.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I guess I got hauled out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Miss Grace.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018You can call me Dixon.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I will not. Miss Grace, do you know why you are here?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I asked you the same question,\u2019 she says. \u2018I don\u2019t have a clue, logic or otherwise.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018This is very serious.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I agree with you on that. It\u2019s definitely a serious room, with some serious-looking bolt holes in the floor, and a serious mirror which some serious people are probably looking through.\u2019 She waves at them. \u2018And it\u2019s definitely a serious matter when you arrest someone for no reason.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018We have a reason.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018What is it?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018A source.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018To hell with that,\u2019 she says. \u2018I don\u2019t want to hear any of it. I want to contact my embassy. Now.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018We contacted them.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018That\u2019s great, but I want to contact them. There is no reason for me to be here. I\u2019ve led the life of a saint in Germany.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Please. Calm down.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019m calm. I\u2019m seeing nothing but yellow sun. Maybe on a different day with you, I\u2019d be seeing red.\u2019<\/p>\n

He tugs self-consciously at the yellow pullover, zipping it up, then down, then rubbing his forehead and retreating to the dossier. He lets out a loud sigh.<\/p>\n

\u2018My name is Kriminaloberkommissar Gerd Schultze. I work in LKA5.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Ell car aah phoonph?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Landeskriminalamt.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Is that where I am?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes,\u2019 Schultze says. \u2018Wirtschaftskriminalit\u00e4t.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Love the compound nouns, but it\u2019s all Greek to me.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018You should learn German then,\u2019 he shouts. Then he controls himself, clearly aware there are people watching and judging. He even gives the mirror a brief, apologetic glance. \u2018My department is responsible for economic crime.<\/p>\n

\u2018Like insider trading, that sort of stuff?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Sometimes, yes.\u2019<\/p>\n

She shrugs. \u2018I don\u2019t have any shares. And I paid all my taxes last year. This year too. Paying ahead like a good citizen. I have an accountant who organized that for me.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Very smart. The tax system here is complex.\u2019 Schultze checks the dossier again. \u2018Especially when you are Selbstst\u00e4ndig.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Right, a freelancer. It was the only visa I could get. But in the end, I didn\u2019t get it. They gave it to someone called Grace Dixon. Never met her. Maybe she\u2019s the one you want.\u2019<\/p>\n

A smile stretches below Schultze\u2019s moustache, a thin line of relative exasperation that breaks long parentheses at each corner of his mouth, bracketing the hair. \u2018I read that Australians like to joke,\u2019 he says, sounding very informed. \u2018But this is serious. Can you be serious?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u2018Sure. Of course. I\u2019ve got nothing but respect for the police. I\u2019ve done nothing wrong and I\u2019ve got no idea why I\u2019m here.\u2019 She speaks to the mirror. \u2018Can we make this quick? I\u2019ve got classes to teach.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Ahem, the crime is Wirtschaftsdelikt,\u2019 Schultze says formally. \u2018Economic spying.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Economic spying? Do you mean corporate espionage?\u2019<\/p>\n

Schultze snaps his fingers. \u2018That is it. I made a direct translation.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018And you\u2019re sure you\u2019ve got the right person?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Our source named you.\u2019<\/p>\n

Dixon crosses her arms and sits back. \u2018Who was that exactly?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I cannot say.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Ben?\u2019<\/p>\n

Schultze looks at the dossier.<\/p>\n

\u2018Because he wasn\u2019t there when the cavalry arrived,\u2019 Dixon says. \u2018He must\u2019ve left when I was asleep. Rather convenient, don\u2019t you think?’<\/p>\n

\u2018We need to stay on the topic. I will ask you some questions and you will answer them.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I wouldn\u2019t believe a word he says.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Who?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Ben. Benjamin Steckdorf. He called this in, didn\u2019t he?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018No, he did not,\u2019 Schultze says, and Dixon decides that he\u2019s lying.<\/p>\n

\u2018Now, my questions.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Let\u2019s go. Get it over with. Are you recording this?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018We are.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Filming it too?\u2019 She runs her hands through her hair and checks herself in the mirror. \u2018I look terrible. That\u2019s really brutal, you know, to pull someone out of bed before they\u2019ve even had a shower and brushed their teeth. Do you treat your wife like this? Are you married, Gerd?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Kriminaloberkommissar Schultze.\u2019<\/p>\n

She watches Schultze play with the wedding ring, pushing it up to his big knuckle and twirling it a few times.<\/p>\n

\u2018You\u2019ll never get that off,\u2019 she says. \u2018I hope you love your wife because that marriage is forever. Or you\u2019ll have to chop your finger off. What did you do to your fingers anyway? They look wrecked.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Handball,\u2019 he says, looking at them. \u2018But we must talk about you.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018That\u2019s big here, isn\u2019t it? I have some friends who play basketball and I went to watch a game. They always have to play on these rubber floors. They\u2019re so dusty, the players slip all over the place and twist their ankles. It\u2019s dangerous.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018They are handball courts, not basketball courts.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018That\u2019s right. Because a real basketball court is made of wood.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Look, we must focus on why you are here.\u2019<\/p>\n

She shifts in the chair. \u2018I\u2019m sorry, Gerd. I\u2019m cranky when I get up too early. When I don\u2019t get my morning shower and coffee. I\u2019m a girl who likes routine.\u2019<\/p>\n

Schultze claps his hands together once. \u2018Right. Miss Grace, what do you know about planes?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Airplanes?\u2019 she says, shrugging. \u2018They fly, sometimes crash. They never have enough leg room, not even for little old me. And they\u2019re an awful thing to sit in for the twenty-four hour trip toAustralia.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018You teach at the … uh … at the big plane company across theElbe.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018You mean Flussair?\u2019<\/p>\n

He grimaces, and nods once.<\/p>\n

\u2018You can\u2019t say the name?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018No.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Hah.\u2019 In a mock serious tone, \u2018Yes, Mr Schultze. I teach at the big plane company on the other side of the river. Isn\u2019t that well said? No one will ever know.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018When did you start there?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Almost a year ago. My language school organizes classes there.\u201d Sarcastically, \u2018Can I say the name of the school?\u2019<\/p>\n

Schultze checks the dossier. \u2018Multilinga.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Why can we say that name and not Flussair?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Because I say so.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Hah. You don\u2019t scare me,\u2019 Dixon says roughly. She just keeps herself from jumping up and attacking Schultze. Not to hurt him, but to show him that she could take him down, easily.<\/p>\n

\u2018I only want answers. And facts.\u2019<\/p>\n

Dixon nods slowly. \u2018They know already, don\u2019t they? And they want to keep their name out of the press, out of the police files. Keep everything nice and clean.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I am right. You know a lot about this.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018And so I should. According to you, I\u2019m a corporate spy.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018You admit it.\u2019<\/p>\n

More Aussie humour, I\u2019m afraid. You\u2019ve got the wrong Dixon Grace, or Grace Dixon, or whoever. The wrong girl.\u2019<\/p>\n

Schultze clasps his fingers together, seeming to restrain himself. Dixonwishes he would get up and try something. He looks like he wants to.<\/p>\n

Come on, lard bucket, she thinks. Try me.<\/p>\n

Schultze taps the table three times with that combined fist, which is the size of a small pumpkin.<\/p>\n

\u2018Grace Treya Dixon\u2019 he says, reading from the dossier. \u2018Sorry. DixonTreya Grace. Born in Narooma, New South Wales. Female. Twenty-six years old.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Wow. You must fly through those logic problems.\u2019<\/p>\n

The very faint sound of a woman laughing makesDixonlook at the mirror.<\/p>\n

\u2018What kind of name is Treya?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s my middle name. Would you like to call me Miss Treya?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018You are very rude,\u2019 Schultze says. \u2018This name, are you a native?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018A what?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018A native from Australia.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Do you mean an Aborigine?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes.\u2019 Nodding with embarrassment and avoiding Dixon\u2019s eyes, \u2018Yes.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019m not. It’s Indian. Sanskrit, actually. It means walking in three paths.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018You are Indian,\u2019 Schultze says, pouncing on the fact. He takes the pen from his logic problems book and makes a note in the file. The pen seems to get lost in his big hand.<\/p>\n

\u2018My grandmother is, but I\u2019m Australian. And that means I get to call my embassy to ask for support.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Ah,\u2019 a big index finger in the air, and a moustache smiling, \u2018but you say you did nothing wrong.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Which is precisely why I want to call my embassy, so I can get out of here and get on with my life.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Please, calm yourself.\u2019<\/p>\n

She takes a deep breath. She knows she\u2019s pushing it, knows she has to, up to a certain point. She also knows that she has rights.<\/p>\n

\u2018You don\u2019t seem to think this is a mistake,\u2019 she says.<\/p>\n

Schultze has something of a hopeless look on his face, like he\u2019s powerless to the facts. \u2018I only know what I know,\u2019 he declares. \u2018Now, you came to Germany in January last year. May I ask why?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Obviously to steal secrets from plane company X.\u2019 She sighs and lowers her voice. \u2018I have a friend here. We met at school in Narooma. She was an exchange student.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Astrid Thielen.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018How do you know that?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018It is in the file.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018So you got her name right.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018You registered at her apartment,\u2019 Schultze says, also reading out the date and address.<\/p>\n

\u2018Yeah, so I stayed with her for a bit, then I took a room in a shared flat in the Portuguese Quarter. It was really cramped. Bathroom was a closet. It was awful.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018And you moved in with Benjamin Steckdorf in January of this year.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Why are you repeating this? \u2019Dixon asks. \u2018You\u2019re not exactly the world\u2019s greatest interrogator.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I wish to establish the facts.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018For a crime I have nothing to do with?\u2019<\/p>\n

The door opens and a woman enters.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

He zips down the ill-fitting yellow pullover and plucks a pair of glasses from the pocket of his shirt. He has big hands, meaty and swollen, with a couple of the knuckles bulging; fingers once dislocated and not quite put back into place, maybe snapping them in himself and getting it wrong. Heroin addict hands, she thinks. But he\u2019s no addict. She does not want to be touched by those hands […] in Authors and extracts<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[20,23],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4430","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-authors-and-writing","category-extracts-and-short-stories"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4430","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=4430"}],"version-history":[{"count":11,"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4430\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4518,"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4430\/revisions\/4518"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=4430"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=4430"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=4430"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}