“You must be Quinn,” she said, her voice as calming as her smile. “My name is Anna. Graham mentioned you might need my help.”
I tried to nod, but ended up giving something closer to a jerky tilt of my head.
When I didn’t say anything, Anna continued, “If it’s okay with you, we’ll check out a few things and make sure you’re all right.”
I swallowed hard. She seemed nice. Shame burned up my neck before I could stop it.
This was too much. I didn’t need this. I wanted to hide—curl back inside the walls I’d built inside my heart of concrete and steel and pretend I didn’t need anyone.
I wanted to go home.
But I didn’t even know where home was anymore. My apartment in Cincinnati? The bed-and-breakfast? Neither felt right. I was aching for a place that didn’t exist.
Anna’s voice broke through my thoughts. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.” She glanced at Graham. “Maybe with a little more privacy?”
“Right,” he said quickly. “You can use my room.”
I didn’t protest. My mind felt detached from my body as I rose and followed them down a hall. The house was quiet, our footsteps the only sound. Graham opened a door near the end of the hall, revealing a clean, spacious bedroom. The hardwood floors gleamed in the soft light from the bedside lamp, and a thick wool rug covered the center of the floor. The bed was neatly made, the down comforter smooth and inviting.
“Here.” Anna motioned me toward it.
I sat gingerly on the edge, the mattress dipping beneath my weight.
Graham hesitated in the doorway. His eyes flicked to Anna, then back to me. “I’ll be right out in the living room if you need me,” he said, voice quiet but firm.
He shut the door.
Anna placed her bag on the bedside table and opened it. Inside was a neat collection of instruments—blood pressure cuff, stethoscope, gauze, antiseptic, and things I couldn’t name. She looked up at me.
“Quinn,” she said gently, “I’m going to take a look at you, all right? But you’re in charge here. If anything feels uncomfortable, you tell me and I’ll stop. Fair?”
I nodded, but didn’t at all feel in charge of anything. Least of all my own body.
Her lips thinned. Cautiously, she took her phone out of her pocket, looking at me almost like she was sorry she had to ask. “Can I get your permission to take pictures of your injuries?”
I should’ve recoiled from the request, but I was too numb. “Why?”
“For my records. They will be completely private. I won’t share them with anyone without your permission.”
I didn’t have the energy to ask more, and though I didn’t even know this woman, I didn’t care enough about myself right now to refuse. “Okay. That’s fine.”
“Thank you.” She tentatively reached for me. “First, let’s take this off.”
She tugged at something across my chest, and I realized my bag was still slung across my body. I’d totally forgotten about it.
I helped her take it off and she started with my vitals—blood pressure, pulse, pupils, and lungs. Her hands were steady and warm, her movements practiced but not clinical. “You’re not concussed,” she murmured. “That’s good news.”
She leaned back, studying my face. She inspected my mouth closer, taking out a small light and looking at it from different angles. “I don’t think your lip needs stitches. The vermilion isn’t damaged. The wound itself is actually below the lips and shallow. I’m going to clean it out and put a bandage on it.”
I grimaced. “That’s fine.”
She gave me a look that was soft but immovable. “It might hurt a little.”
I looked away. “Okay.”
She took a photo of the wound so quickly I almost didn’t notice. Then she snapped on a pair of gloves, tore open an antiseptic packet, and pressed the cool pad to my skin. The sharp chemical sting hit instantly, blooming through the cut so intensely my eyes watered.
“Sorry, I know that burns.”
