She nodded, still crying softly, and I forced myself to look away from her…back to him. I couldn’t stop staring.
The door creaked open behind us, and a man in uniform stepped in, hat tucked under his arm, his expression somber.
“Mrs. Adler?” he said softly. “I’m Officer Grant. I just need to ask a few questions about what happened tonight.”
My mom blinked up at him, dazed, fingers still wrapped around the water cup like she didn’t know what it was for. “I—I already told the paramedics,” she stammered.
“I know, ma’am,” he said gently. “But I need to get a clear timeline.”
She swallowed, nodding once. “I was on shift. A double. The kids were at my mother’s. When I got home…” Her voice cracked, and she glanced at my dad before looking away. “He was on the floor. I thought maybe he’d had a heart attack, but then I saw—the living room was…destroyed. The coffee table, the television,everything, broken.”
She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.
The officer nodded, jotting something down in his notebook. “Did anything appear to be taken? Wallets, electronics, cash?”
She blinked at him, confusion flickering across her face. “I…I don’t know. I didn’t look. I just called 911.”
Her tone was thin, trembling, but there was something else under it, something small and off.
I studied her face, the way her eyes darted too quickly to the floor. My gut twisted.
She was hiding something.
A low sound broke through the steady rhythm of the machines—a rough, wet groan that made my head snap up.
“Ronnie?” My mom lurched forward, almost spilling the cup of water. “Ronnie, can you hear me?” Her voice cracked as she clutched his hand, brushing the side of his bruised face with trembling fingers. “Honey, it’s me. Can you hear me?”
But his eyes stayed closed. His chest lifted once, then fell shallowly again, a soft moan slipping out that didn’t sound like recognition, just pain.
My mom started to cry harder, whispering his name over and over, like she could pull him back just by saying it. The officer shifted awkwardly, clearing his throat.
“I’ll get out of your way,” he murmured, stepping back toward the door. “We’ll be in touch once we know more.” He nodded to me and slipped out quietly.
I was just turning to my mom—ready to ask what she wasn’t telling me—when the door opened again. A doctor stepped in, clipboard in hand, his scrubs streaked with the kind of exhaustion you only saw at hospitals. He hesitated when his eyes met mine, the faint question clear in his face.
“It’s okay,” my mom said quickly, wiping at her cheeks. “He’s our son.”
The doctor nodded, then looked back at my dad, his expression tightening. “Your husband’s stable for now,” he said. “He has several broken ribs, a fractured wrist, and extensive bruising along his chest and abdomen. We’re keeping an eye on his breathing and possible internal bleeding. There’s swelling near his temple—we’re watching for a concussion as well.”
He hesitated, lowering the chart slightly. “Given the circumstances, we’ll need to keep him sedated a little longer while we manage the pain and prevent further stress on his ribs.”
My mom nodded, tears still streaking down her face.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him—the bandages, the bruises, the tubes keeping him alive.
She wiped at her face, voice trembling. “Thank you, Doctor.”
He gave a sympathetic nod and quietly slipped from the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
For a moment, the only sound was the soft, steady beeping of the monitors. My dad’s chest rose and fell in a shallow, uneven rhythm, the bruises on his ribs shifting faintly with each breath.
I turned to her. “Tell me what you’re hiding.”
Her eyes flicked up, startled. “What?”
“Mom.” My voice came out rough. “You’ve been holding something back since I got here. What aren’t you telling me?”
She shook her head, voice breaking. “Matthew, please—not now.”
