Chapter 2 - DETECTIVE MARA QUINN
Her name was Mara Quinn.
Detective.
Domestic-violence and major-assault unit.
She did not arrest Caleb in the hallway.
That disappointed the primitive part of me.
The more intelligent part understood why.
She had questions.
Security had witnessed the immediate hospital assault.
Clara saw him pulling me.
My split lip was documented.
The slap was straightforward.
What happened three nights earlier was not.
Caleb left the unit escorted by security.
Hospital administration suspended his visitor access.
Police took a statement.
Maya stayed with me.
“Do you want someone else called?”
I thought.
My sister, Jenna.
“She lives forty minutes away.”
“We can call.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Because Caleb hated Jenna.
Because Jenna hated him.
Because calling her would make everything real.
Then I looked at my casts.
Real had already arrived.
“Yes.”
Maya dialed.
I told Jenna only:
“Come to the hospital.”
She heard my voice.
“What did he do?”
That was Jenna.
No hello.
No pretending.
“Just come.”
She did.
Thirty-three minutes.
Probably speeding.
She entered my room wearing jeans, a rain jacket, and the expression of a woman looking for someone to kill.
Then she saw my mouth.
“Where is he?”
“Gone.”
“Where?”
“Jenna.”
“Rebecca.”
Maya intervened gently.
“Your sister needs calm.”
Jenna looked at her.
“I can be calm.”
She sat.
Then whispered:
“I can hate him quietly.”
Acceptable.
Mara returned after speaking with Caleb.
“He says you became agitated because he was trying to arrange discharge.”
“That’s a lie.”
“He says you agreed yesterday to transfer to Ridgeway Rehabilitation.”
“No.”
“He has a signed authorization.”
I stared.
“What?”
“A transfer-consent document.”
“I didn’t sign anything.”
Mara paused.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“When did you last sign paperwork?”
“Yesterday morning. Maybe insurance forms. Pain consent. I don’t know.”
Medication blurred parts of the previous day.
That frightened me.
“Could you have signed without remembering?”
Jenna said:
“No.”
I looked at her.
“Maybe.”
Accuracy.
Mara nodded.
“Good answer.”
Then:
“Rebecca, tell me what you remember about the fall.”
I stared at the ceiling.
Fragments.
An unfinished house.
Concrete dust.
Caleb shouting.
Rain against plastic sheeting.
My own voice saying:
“You used my name.”
Then his hand around my upper arm.
Maybe.
A staircase.
No railing on one side.
Then nothing.
“I remember arguing.”
“About?”
My chest tightened.
“Money.”
Caleb had told police I became dizzy at his construction site and fell down unfinished stairs.
I had repeated it when I first woke.
Why?
Because he was beside my bed.
Because I could not remember.
Because he said it first.
Mara asked:
“Did he push you?”
I closed my eyes.
“I don’t know.”
That was harder than yes.
Then:
“I remember his hand.”
“Where?”
“My arm.”
“Before you fell?”
“I think so.”
She wrote.
No dramatic claim.
No conclusion.
Maya said:
“We’ll take this one fact at a time.”
May you like
For once, that did not feel slow.
It felt safe.
