The police arrived in pairs.
Two uniforms first, then a detective in a gray coat with tired eyes and a notebook he did not open right away. The hallway outside my room filled with the soft chaos of authority: radios crackling, shoes squeaking against polished tile, nurses speaking in urgent whispers.
Grant stood near the foot of my bed with his hands raised slightly, not in surrender, but in offense.
“This is ridiculous,” he said. “My wife had an accident. She’s confused. She’s on medication.”
Dr. Elias Reed did not move from my bedside.
“She has defensive injuries,” he said evenly. “Old fractures. Pattern bruising. These injuries are inconsistent with a fall.”
Grant gave a short laugh.
“A doctor playing detective. Wonderful.”
The detective looked at me.
“Mrs. Mercer,” he said gently. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Grant’s eyes found mine.
There it was again: the warning. The promise. The invisible hand around my throat.
