Chương 3
“I’m her mother.”
“That does not change her medical status.”
“I need to know what medication she’s taking.”
“You need her written authorization before I discuss anything.”
Lorraine’s voice cooled. “I’m not asking you to discuss. I’m asking you to listen. My daughter has a history of overreacting under stress.”
Celia’s face did not move. “This call is ending now.”
“Her husband should be allowed—”
Celia disconnected.
She returned the phone to Claire and adjusted the bed so Claire sat slightly higher. “I’m documenting that.”
“Don’t.”
“I already did.”
“My mother will complain.”
“She can complain about me while you keep breathing.”
Claire looked down at the blanket. A loose thread curved near her right knee. She tried to pinch it with her free hand and could not reach.
“I shouldn’t have called them,” she said.
Celia checked the monitor leads. “People call who they wish would answer.”
The upload finished.
A secure-message confirmation appeared: FILES RECEIVED.
Claire sent Naomi one final message.
Do not let me change my mind.
Naomi replied almost immediately.
I can protect your instructions. I cannot protect you from every feeling you will have about them.
Claire placed the phone facedown on her chest.
The first police officer arrived twenty minutes later, after a respiratory therapist had checked her oxygen and a resident had pressed carefully along her ribs. Officer Daniel Ruiz stood just inside the doorway in a dark uniform, his hands visible. He was younger than Claire expected, perhaps thirty, with tired eyes and rain spots dried on one shoulder though the sky outside her window remained clear. A summer storm must have crossed the southern part of the city.
A hospital social worker named Beth came with him. Beth wore green glasses and carried a tablet in a rubber case.
Officer Ruiz asked whether Claire wanted Celia to remain.
“Yes,” Claire said.
He pulled a chair away from the wall but did not sit until Beth did. “I know you’ve already told medical staff some of this. I’m going to ask questions that may feel repetitive.”
Claire’s phone vibrated against her chest.
DOMINIC.
She turned it facedown again.
Ruiz glanced at it but did not ask.
“Can you tell me what happened tonight?”
Claire opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
The account had seemed organized while she imagined giving it. Dominic came home. Dominic saw the folder open on her laptop. Dominic asked what she had copied. She lied. He took the laptop. She reached for it. He pushed her. She struck the console table. He dragged her back when she moved toward the door. He squeezed her throat. He said things.
In the room, the sequence became less certain. Had he pushed her before or after he threw the phone? Had she scratched his hand while he held her neck or while he pulled her from the stairs? She remembered the sound of a lamp breaking but not whether it happened in the study or the hall.
“I found financial documents,” she said.
Ruiz waited.
“My husband didn’t want me to have them.”
“What kind of documents?”
“Insurance policies. Tax amendments. Transfers from my accounts.”
“Did you confront him?”
“I asked.”
“What did he say?”
“That I didn’t understand what I was looking at.”
“Then what?”
Claire swallowed. “He took my laptop.”
“Did you try to get it back?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He pushed me.”
Her voice sounded remote, like a woman in another bed.
“Where did you fall?”
“Against a table. Then the floor.”
“Did he strike you?”
“I don’t know.”
Ruiz’s pen paused. “You don’t remember, or you’re not sure whether his actions legally count as striking?”
Beth looked at him.
He softened his tone. “I’m not asking you to classify anything. Just tell me what his body did.”
“He grabbed my arm. He pulled me away from the door. I hit the wall. He put his hand around my neck.”
“Both hands or one?”
“One. Then both, I think.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you lose consciousness?”
“Maybe.”
Celia said, “She reported a period of memory loss during admission.”
Ruiz wrote that down. “What do you remember next?”
“The stairs.”
“Were you on them?”
“At the bottom.”
“Did he push you?”
Claire closed her eyes. Dominic’s voice returned with terrible clarity: Look what you make me do. The old sentence. The stupid sentence. The sentence people used in movies because no real person could possibly say it, until one did.
“I don’t know how I got there.”
“Did anyone else see you inside the house?”
“No.”
“How did you leave?”
“I went through the front door.”
“Did he try to stop you?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did he follow?”
“Yes.”
“To the yard?”
“To the porch.”
“What did he do?”
“He told Mrs. Alvarez I’d fallen.”
The room was quiet except for the monitor and the oxygen. Somewhere in the corridor, a cart wheel squeaked on each rotation.
“What did you tell Mrs. Alvarez?” Ruiz asked.
“I asked her not to let him touch me.”
Ruiz looked at Beth, then back at Claire. “Did she hear that?”
“Yes.”
“Did Dominic leave before paramedics arrived?”
“No.”
“Did he speak to them?”
“He said I’d taken something.”
“What did he say you took?”
“Sleeping pills.”
“Had you?”
“No.”
“Are you prescribed any?”
“Not anymore.”
“When were you?”
“Last year.”
“For what?”
Claire looked toward the window. “Insomnia.”
Beth’s green glasses reflected the monitor. “Was the insomnia related to your marriage?”
“I didn’t tell the doctor that.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Yes.”
Ruiz rested the pen on his notebook. “Mrs. Mercer-Hale, your husband contacted officers at the scene. He reported that you became agitated, attacked him, and fell while trying to leave.”
Celia’s hand stilled on the IV tubing.
Claire felt neither shock nor anger. She felt an exhausted recognition, almost relief. There it was—the shape of his defense, familiar and polished.
“Did he show them an injury?” she asked.
May you like
“A scratch on his right hand.”
“I scratched him when he was choking me.”
