Chương 3
Before she could say more, someone knocked on the door.
Elena stepped inside with a strained expression.
“Your husband is downstairs.”
Every muscle in my body seemed to tighten at once.
“He's asking to see you.”
“No.”
The answer came so quickly that it surprised me.
Elena nodded.
“He says his mother is with him.”
I looked at Ortiz.
She said nothing.
For the first time since I had crawled across the kitchen floor, nobody was telling me what choice to make.
I looked at the phone on the bedside table.
Then at the photographs of my stolen documents.
Then at the hospital door.
“Actually,” I said, “let them come up.”
Elena's eyebrows lifted, but she did not argue.
Detective Ortiz leaned back in the visitor chair and studied me with the kind of silence that made me feel as though she were waiting to see whether I understood the danger in my own decision.
"I want them to talk," I said.
Ortiz glanced toward the door.
"Then we need boundaries."
"They won't hit me here."
"That isn't the only kind of harm people can do."
I looked at the photographs again.
"I know."
She stood and moved closer to the bed.
"If they come in, you don't owe them answers."
"I know."
"If you become uncomfortable, say the word and security removes them."
"I know."
Ortiz's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You keep saying that."
"Because I'm trying to believe it."
That answer seemed to satisfy her more than the others had.
She pulled out her phone and spoke quietly with someone in the hallway while Elena adjusted the blanket over my cast.
My leg felt less like part of my body than a heavy object attached to it.
The pain medication had softened the sharpest edges, but every small movement still produced a deep internal throb.
My mother and father were allowed back in long enough for me to explain.
Dad's reaction was immediate.
"Absolutely not."
"Dad."
"No."
"They're not taking me anywhere."
"That is not the point."
He turned toward Ortiz.
"Why would you allow this?"
Ortiz didn't flinch.
"Because your daughter is an adult."
My father looked offended by the answer.
Then ashamed of being offended by it.
Mom touched his forearm.
"Paul."
He rubbed both hands over his face.
"What are you trying to accomplish, Hannah?"
"I want to hear what they say when they think they still control the story."
Mom stared at me.
"You don't have to prove anything to them."
"I'm not proving it to them."
I looked at Ortiz.
"Can I record them?"
Ortiz's expression changed just enough for me to notice.
"In Georgia, a participant in a conversation can generally record it, but I am not giving you legal advice from a hospital room."
"I have a lawyer."
Dad looked at me.
"Since when?"
"I don't."
The words came out before I could stop them.
Then I looked at Mom.
"But I need one."
She nodded immediately.
"I know someone."
Of course she did.
My mother had spent twenty-six years working in commercial insurance and seemed to know an attorney for every form of human catastrophe except the one happening to her own daughter.
Within twenty minutes, she had called a former colleague whose sister, Naomi Greene, handled domestic violence, divorce, and financial abuse cases.
Naomi returned the call while security was still keeping Mason and Beatrice downstairs.
She spoke quickly and without drama.
I told her the essential facts.
She told me not to sign anything, not to surrender my phone once I had one, not to discuss finances beyond what I already knew, and not to warn Mason about the search.
Then she said, "If you choose to speak with them, record it."
I looked at Ortiz.
The detective pretended to be interested in the medication chart taped near the foot of my bed.
Naomi continued.
"And Hannah, don't try to bait them."
"I'm not."
"Good."
Her tone suggested she had heard that promise before.
"People ruin useful evidence by trying to manufacture a confession."
"What should I say?"
"As little as possible."
I borrowed my mother's phone because mine was still missing.
Naomi walked me through turning on the recorder and placing it face down beneath the edge of the blanket where the microphone would remain clear.
I hated how theatrical it felt.
For a few seconds I almost changed my mind.
Then a memory surfaced without warning.
Mason standing over me in the kitchen.
Tonight you learn what happens when you refuse to listen.
I pressed record.
Mom and Dad waited in a consultation room down the hall.
Ortiz left too.
She said she would remain nearby, although I noticed she did not tell me exactly where.
Elena checked my IV one last time and whispered, "You sure?"
"No."
She gave me the smallest smile.
"That sounds more believable."
Three minutes later, Beatrice walked into my hospital room laughing.
Not nervous laughter.
Not an uncomfortable social reflex.
Actual amusement.
Mason came behind her carrying a vase of yellow grocery-store flowers and wearing the navy quarter-zip sweater I had bought him for his birthday.
For a moment the sight of that sweater affected me more than seeing his face.
I had stood in a department store for forty minutes choosing between navy and charcoal because he once said navy made him look less tired.
Now he placed the flowers beside my bed as though we were visiting an elderly aunt after routine surgery.
"Wow," he said.
"They really wrapped you up."
Beatrice smiled.
"They make those casts bigger every year."
I said nothing.
She moved closer.
Her perfume reached me before she did.
White florals and powder.
The same scent that had filled the kitchen while she swung the rolling pin.
Mason pulled the visitor chair toward him and sat.
"Your dad's here."
I kept my eyes on him.
"Yes."
"He wouldn't speak to me."
"Good."
His smile thinned.
"Okay."
Beatrice sighed.
May you like
"Can we not start like this?"
I almost laughed.
