Chapter 3 - MY HAND
The burn did not look dramatic enough for how much it hurt.
That bothered me.
I expected something visually catastrophic.
Instead there were red areas, pale areas, blisters beginning across my palm and two fingers.
The emergency physician, Dr. Samuel Brooks, examined it under bright light.
“Partial-thickness burns. Some deeper spots we’ll watch carefully.”
“Will I need surgery?”
“Possibly not. Hand burns get specialist follow-up because function matters.”
I looked at my right hand.
My dominant hand.
I owned a small bakery and catering company called Juniper Table.
Not huge.
Six employees.
Wedding cakes.
Corporate lunches.
Private dinners.
Cooking was not just something Cynthia ordered me to do at family parties.
It was my livelihood.
“Can I work?”
“Not normally for a while.”
My stomach dropped.
“How long?”
“We evaluate healing over days.”
I hated medical answers.
They respected reality too much.
The nurse cleaned my palm.
I cried.
Quietly.
Dana Ruiz arrived before discharge.
Not the attorney.
The advocate who had given me the panic fob.
She was forty, compact, direct, and never said:
Why didn’t you leave?
Three weeks earlier, she had asked:
“What would make leaving safer?”
Different question.
Now she sat beside my bed.
“You pressed it.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Did it work?”
“Yes.”
The security company preserved the backyard feed and alerted emergency services.”
My breath released.
“Can Ivan delete it?”
“No.”
“Cynthia?”
“No.”
“The house camera is hers.”
“The camera is hers. The monitored backup account is yours.”
I stared.
Three weeks earlier, Dana’s organization had arranged a temporary cloud bridge linked to a compatible camera I had access to because Cynthia had once given me credentials to water plants while she traveled.
Was that legal?
Dana had checked.
The camera covered an outdoor common area.
I had legitimate account access.
The bridge saved copies of footage I could already view.
No hacking.
No spy fantasy.
“You planned for something like this?” I asked.
Dana shook her head.
“You planned for evidence preservation if something happened.”
Difference.
I looked at my bandaged hand.
“I should have left before today.”
She did not agree.
Did not disagree.
“Where are you sleeping tonight?”
“My house.”
“Will Ivan be there?”
“No.”
I hoped.
The responding officers had removed him from Cynthia’s property while the assault investigation continued.
That did not automatically bar him from our home.
Dana helped me seek an emergency protective order.
By 9:40 p.m., a judge approved temporary no-contact conditions.
Ivan could not return to the house that night.
At least paper said so.
I had learned paper and safety were not identical.
Still.
Paper gave police something enforceable.
I drove home with my sister, Rachel, who had arrived at the hospital furious enough to scare furniture.
She opened my front door.
Stopped.
“What?”
“Your office.”
The door was open.
I always kept it closed.
Inside, one desk drawer hung halfway out.
My stomach tightened.
I walked toward it.
Dana stopped me.
“Don’t touch anything.”
“What’s missing?”
I already knew.
The blue folder.
Bank correspondence.
Copies of loan applications.
May you like
The documents I had planned to take to a lawyer Monday.
Gone.
