I nodded.
She glanced at the monitor, then at the tube running beneath my gown.
“Your husband says you fell down the stairs.”
“I didn’t.”
The words came out weak but clear.
Detective Ruiz did not react dramatically. She simply opened a small notebook.
“What happened?”
I told her.
Not everything.
Not at first.
I told her about the missing money. The kitchen island. The floor. Garrett reaching me before I reached my phone.
I did not describe every blow. I did not need to. My medical chart had already documented what my voice could not.
When I finished, she asked, “Has this happened before?”
The old answer rose automatically.
No.
It had protected Garrett for years.
It had protected my parents from discomfort.
It had protected me from having to admit how much of myself I had surrendered.
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
Detective Ruiz waited.
“How many times?”
“I don’t know.”
