That gets a real smile, brief but genuine. It transforms her face for just a second before she locks it back down.
I study her more carefully, cataloging the injuries with the clinical eye of someone who’s prosecuted too many domestic violence cases. Split lip, mostly healed. Bruising around her eye, fading from purple to yellow. Finger-shaped marks on her upper arm, visible where her hospital gown has slipped.
Someone has hurt this girl. Recently. Repeatedly.
“What landed you here?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
Her face shutters. “I fell.”
It’s the oldest lie in the book. I’ve heard it a hundred times from women who can’t admit—to themselves or anyone else—what really happened.
“That’s a lot of bruises for a fall.”
“It was a long staircase.”
“Must have been.”
We stare at each other. She knows I don’t believe her. I know she knows. But I also know that pushing will only make her retreat further, so I let it go.
“How long have you been here?” I ask instead.
“Five days.” She fidgets with the edge of the curtain, not meeting my gaze. “I’m supposed to leave tomorrow.”
“And then what?”
“I go home.” She says it flatly, like it’s obvious. Like there’s no other option. “My stepdad’s picking me up.”
The way she says stepdad lands like a stone in my stomach. I keep my expression neutral, but inside, a cold fury is waking. My hands want to curl into fists. I want to find this man and make him understand what it feels like to be small and scared and hurt.
Instead, I keep my voice gentle.
“That’s good,” I say carefully. “That you have someone.”
“Yeah.” She doesn’t sound convinced. Doesn’t sound much of anything, really. “He’s been worried about me.”
I’ll bet he has.
“Hey.” I wait until she meets my gaze. “If you ever need help—legal help, or just someone to talk to—I’m a lawyer. Josie Bright. I’m in the book.”
Her lips twist into a thin line. It’s the look of someone who knows exactly why I’m offering and hates me for it.
“I don’t need a lawyer. I fell down the stairs.”
“Of course you did.”
She doesn’t respond. Just stares at me for a long moment, then retreats behind the curtain without another word.
I lie back against my pillows, exhausted by the brief conversation.
Stone, who’s stayed silent through the whole exchange, raises an eyebrow.
“Friend of yours?”
“Not yet.” I close my eyes. “But give it time, I’ll win her over.”
The afternoon brings doctors, nurses, and more bad news.
The concussion has been downgraded to “moderate”—which apparently means I’ll be dealing with headaches and light sensitivity for weeks.
