Love You More (Tessa Leoni, #1)(22)

I murmured yes to both.

“Name and date.”

I managed my name, blanked on the date.

Doctor’s turn to nod. “Given the clear CT scan, it would seem you have only a concussion to go with your fractured zygomatic. And what happened here?” He finished with my head, moving to my torso, where the yellow and green remnants of a fading bruise covered half my ribs.

I didn’t answer, just stared at the ceiling.

He palpitated my stomach. “Does this hurt?”

“No.”

He rotated my right arm, then my left, searching for further signs of damage. He found it on my left hip, another deep purple bruise, this time in the shape of a rounded arc, like what might be formed from the toe of a work boot.

I’d seen bruises in the shape of men’s rings, watch faces, even an imprint of a quarter on a female who’d been slugged by a boyfriend holding a roll of coins. Judging by the doctor’s face, he’d seen it all, as well.

Dr. Raj smoothed my gown back in place, retrieved my medical chart, made some notes.

“Cheek fracture will heal best if left alone,” he stated. “We’ll keep you overnight to monitor the concussion. If your nausea and headache have subsided by morning, chances are you may go home.”

I didn’t say anything.

The doctor stepped closer, cleared his throat.

“There is a bump on your left sixth rib,” he stated. “A fracture I suspect did not heal correctly.”

He paused as if waiting for me to say something, perhaps a statement he could enter into my medical chart: Patient says husband knocked her down and kicked her in the ribs. Patient says husband has a favorite baseball bat.

I said nothing, because statements became records, and records became evidence that could be used against you.

“Did you wrap your ribs yourself?” the doctor asked.

“Yes.”

The doctor grunted, my one admission filling in all his blanks.

The doctor saw me as a victim, just as the EMT had seen me as a victim. They were both wrong. I was a survivor and I was currently walking a tightrope where I absolutely, positively could not afford to fall.

Dr. Raj studied me again. “Rest is the best medicine for healing,” he said finally. “Given your concussion, I cannot prescribe a narcotic, but I will have a nurse bring you some ibuprofen for the pain.”

“Thank you.”

“In the future,” he said, “should you injure your ribs, please come to me immediately. I would like to see them better wrapped.”

“I’ll be all right,” I said.

Dr. Raj did not appear convinced. “Rest,” he repeated. “The pain and the swelling will subside soon enough. Though I have a feeling you already know that by now.”

The doctor departed.

My cheek burned. My head throbbed. But I was satisfied.

I was awake, I was lucid. And finally, I was alone.

Time to plan.

My fingers fisted against the sheets. I studied the ceiling tiles with my one good eye, and used my pain to steel my resolve.

A woman remembers the first time she is hit. But with any luck, she also remembers the first time she fights back and wins.

I am the Giant Killer.

Just gotta think. Just gotta plan. Just gotta get one step ahead.

I could do this. I would do this.

All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, my two front teeth, my two front teeth.

Then, I rolled onto my side, curled up in a ball, and wept.





9



When D.D. wasn’t overseeing an interagency taskforce charged with solving a murder and rescuing a child, she led a three-man squad in Boston’s homicide unit. Her first squadmate, Phil, was the quintessential family man, married to his high school sweetheart and raising four kids. Her other squadmate, Neil, was a lanky redhead who’d formerly served as an EMT before joining the BPD. He had a tendency to handle the autopsies for the team, spending so much time at the morgue that he was now dating the ME, Ben Whitley.

D.D. had a whole taskforce at her disposal; she still preferred to go with what she knew. She put Neil in charge of Brian Darby’s autopsy, currently scheduled for Monday afternoon. In the meantime, Neil could start pestering the medical staff overseeing Tessa Leoni’s care to determine the extent of her current injuries as well as any medical history of past “accidents.” She assigned Phil, their data cruncher, to run the computer background checks on Brian Darby and Tessa Leoni. And, of course, get her the information on Brian Darby’s employer, immediately.

Turned out, Brian worked for Alaska South Slope Crude, otherwise known as ASSC. Head offices were in Seattle, Washington, and not open on Sunday. This did not suit D.D. She chewed the inside of her cheek while sitting in the command van, nursing a bottle of water. The initial crush of officers had subsided. Most of the neighbors had drifted off, leaving the usual assortment of “didn’t see nothing, don’t know anything” mutterings in their wake. Now only the media remained, still ensconced across the street, still clamoring for a press conference.

D.D. was probably going to have to do something about that, but she wasn’t ready yet. She wanted something to happen first. Maybe a breaking lead she could dangle in front of the hungry hordes. Or a new piece of information that would enable the media to work on her behalf. Something. Anything.