Chapter 4 - OWEN
I named him Owen.
Ryan and I had never agreed on a name.
Maybe that was petty.
Maybe necessary.
He weighed four pounds, six ounces.
Needed CPAP for breathing.
Temperature support.
Monitoring.
No catastrophic neurological findings immediately.
No promise.
Prematurity demands patience.
I met him properly twelve hours later.
Wheelchair.
Incision pain.
Bruised ribs.
Bandages on my palms.
NICU.
I put one finger against his hand.
He wrapped his fingers around it.
I cried so hard the nurse had to wait before talking.
Ryan was not allowed on the unit.
Temporary protective order.
Police had arrested him overnight.
Charges initially:
Assault.
Unlawful restraint.
Domestic violence-related offenses.
Potential reckless endangerment involving pregnancy.
More could come.
Or not.
Prosecutors would decide.
Not me.
Mara Quinn? Need new detective. Let's use Detective Elena Ruiz.
Detective Elena Ruiz met me after I returned to my room.
“Can you talk?”
“Yes.”
Megan stayed.
Elena asked:
“Do you want her here?”
“Yes.”
That question became important.
She showed me photographs.
Not of the trench yet.
Injuries.
Bruising around my upper arms.
Scrapes.
Mud.
A narrow bruise along my left side.
“Do you remember the stick contacting you?”
“No.”
“We don’t need you to remember something because it would help a case.”
Good.
Then:
“Did Ryan dig that trench today?”
“No.”
“When?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“For what?”
“He said drainage.”
The trench ran too deep for ordinary hose drainage.
About thirty inches in places.
Wide enough for a person’s hips.
Not proof.
Still.
“Did he ask you outside?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He said he wanted to show me where the irrigation line was leaking.”
“Did you know you were recording?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Because I was afraid.
I said it.
First time aloud.
“I had decided to leave him.”
“Why?”
I looked toward the NICU hallway.
“Money.”
Elena waited.
“And other things.”
“What things?”
I did not answer immediately.
Bruised wrist six months earlier.
Door blocked during arguments.
Car keys taken.
Phone checked.
One shove.
Apologies.
One chair kicked apart.
Never a broken bone.
Never anything like the garden.
I whispered:
“He was getting worse.”
Elena asked:
“What money?”
“His company.”
“What about it?”
“He used my signature.”
Her pen stopped.
“On what?”
“A loan.”
“How much?”
“I thought two hundred fifty thousand.”
“You thought?”
“Yes.”
“How much was it?”
May you like
“I don’t know.”
Not yet.
