Her lips twitch. Barely. "No nausea. No blurriness. Got a headache, but I earned that."
"Okay." I press gentle fingers to her temples, her scalp, checking for tenderness, swelling, anything that screamsconcussion. She holds rigid at first, muscles tight under my hands, waiting for me to hurt her. I'm careful not to.
When my fingers skim down to her ribs, brushing the edge of a bruise that blooms dark under her shirt, she flinches. Just a flicker. Enough.
"Sorry," I murmur. "Almost done."
Candace forces herself to exhale. Lets me keep going. Her arms are a map of new scrapes and old scars. Fresh abrasions along her forearms. Swelling around her wrist.
I cradle her hand carefully, thumb pressing along the bone, evaluating range of motion.
"What's this from?" I ask, though I can guess.
Her jaw tightens. "I took a bat to my dad's dresser. Then a lamp."
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. Not mocking, just a short, surprised huff of recognition.
"Sounds therapeutic," I say.
She studies me then, trying to decide if I'm the kind of person who tells her she shouldn't have done that. I'm not. We lapse into silence while I finish the exam. Candace lets me. She's not fragile. The bruises say she fought hard.
Anna's face flashes. Blank, terrified, resigned. The auction room. The men in suits. My father's hand on my shoulder, guiding me toward the prep rooms. I was supposed to be next. But I ran.
Candace fought. Smashed a dresser and ran barefoot to the only people who might protect her. I swallow hard, forcing the thoughts down, locking them behind the clinical mask I've spent years perfecting. I loop my stethoscope back around my neck and straighten.
"No fractures, no neuro signs," I say. "Your body will heal."
Her eyes flicker, like the sentence hits something tender. Her fingers dig into the blanket.
She doesn't argue.
On impulse, before I can talk myself out of it, I say, "Girls' night. Tonight. Me, Frankie, Darla. You in?"
Her head jerks. "What?"
"You've earned it. And Ruby's invited too."
Her jaw unclenches. It's small, barely there, but I catch it. "I might come," she says, barely above a whisper.
I move toward the door, giving her space. I pause and look back. "No pressure. If you show up, there's a place for you."
Her eyes go wet. She blinks it back and gives me a tiny nod. I step out, closing the door softly. The second it clicks shut, my knees buckle. I press my back to the wall and breathe until the hallway stops tilting.
Another father who treats his daughter like currency. Another girl who ran. I push off the wall. Malachi hasn't moved. My fingers find the stethoscope at my throat and hold on.
Knox's voice surfaces from the pharmacy, low and certain. We could handle your father. If I actually told you anything.
I keep walking. Downstairs, I can hear his voice, low and steady, talking to someone. I can tell him about Candace's injuries. The bruising, the wrist, the neuro check. I can give him the clinical picture, then he'll nod and act on it. The rest of it, the part where I looked at her and saw every girl I left behind, I keep to myself. For now.
Chapter 14
Knox
IfMalachipacesthisgroove in the clubhouse floor any deeper, we're gonna need to refinish it.
He's on his fifth pass between the bar and the hallway, jaw locked, hands on his hips. The rest of the place hums low around us. There's music on the jukebox, the clink of bottles, and a couple of regulars laughing near the pool table. But his mood eats most of the air.
Mine chews the rest.
