Chapter 2
“Elena? Oh my God, baby, what happened to you?”
Mrs. Greene’s voice was soft, but it cut through the fog in my brain like a knife.
She dropped to her knees on the porch, heedless of the rain soaking her robe.
Her hands hovered over me, scared to touch, scared to hurt me worse.
“Can you move?” she asked. “Is your neck broken?”
I tried to shake my head.
The movement made the world spin.
“Ethan,” I whispered. “His mom. They left me on the floor.”
That was all I could get out before the tears came.
Big, ugly, heaving sobs that shook my whole body.
Mrs. Greene didn’t say anything.
She just wrapped her arms around me as gently as she could and held me while I cried.
The rain poured down on us.
I don’t know how long we sat there.
Long enough for my teeth to start chattering so hard I could barely speak.
“Come on, honey,” she said, easing her arm under my shoulders. “We’ve got to get you to a hospital. Can you stand if I help you?”
I nodded.
With her supporting most of my weight, I somehow got to my feet.
Every step was torture.
My left leg dragged a little, numb and heavy.
She helped me into her old sedan, the leather seats cold against my wet skin.
She turned the heat on full blast and wrapped a wool blanket around me before she got in the driver’s seat.
The drive to the hospital was a blur.
I stared out the window at the rain streaking down the glass, my mind completely blank.
I couldn’t think about Ethan.
Couldn’t think about the house.
If I did, I’d start screaming and never stop.
Mrs. Greene held my hand the whole way.
Her palm was warm and dry, calloused from years of gardening.
It was the first kind touch I’d felt in months.
The ER was bright and chaotic.
Nurses rushed past, wheels squeaking on the linoleum.
A man in the waiting room moaned, holding a blood-soaked towel to his arm.
A triage nurse looked up as we walked in.
Her smile died when she saw me.
She was around my age, with a small cross tattooed on her wrist.
“Let’s get you back right now,” she said, jumping up with a wheelchair.
They took me straight to a curtained bay in the back.
The nurse cut my wet, soup-stained blouse off with scissors.
She gasped when she saw my back.
“Elena, can you tell me what happened?” she asked, her voice steady but tight.
I opened my mouth to lie.
I’d lied a hundred times before.
Fell down the stairs.
Walked into a door.
Tripped over the rug.
The words were on the tip of my tongue.
Then I looked over and saw Mrs. Greene standing in the doorway, her face wet with tears, nodding at me like she knew exactly what I was about to do.
Like she was telling me I didn’t have to anymore.
“My mother-in-law pushed me,” I said, and my voice didn’t even shake. “My husband told me I deserved it. They left me on the kitchen floor for six hours.”
The nurse’s jaw tightened.
She didn’t say anything for a second.
She just wrote it down on her chart, her pen pressing hard into the paper.
“Okay,” she said, looking me right in the eye. “Thank you for telling me. I’m going to get the doctor now. You’re safe here, Elena. No one is going to hurt you again.”
She was as good as her word.
The doctor who came in was a woman in her fifties, with gray streaks in her dark hair and a no-nonsense look on her face.
She introduced herself as Dr. Hale.
She spent an hour examining me, gentle but thorough.
She took X-rays of my skull, my spine, my hip.
She pressed on every bruise, asking me to rate the pain from one to ten.
When she got to my ribs, I cried out.
“Three cracked ribs,” she said, her mouth a thin line. “Severe concussion. Deep bruising along your entire left side. And Elena…”
She paused, lifting my arm to show me the inside of my forearm.
There were old bruises there.
Faded yellow and green.
Weeks old.
From the last time Ethan had grabbed me hard enough to leave marks.
“These aren’t new,” she said, quiet. “This has been happening for a while, hasn’t it?”
I looked away.
I nodded.
“How long?”
“Two years,” I whispered. “Since we got married.”
Dr. Hale exhaled slowly through her nose.
“Elena, by law, I have to report this to the police,” she said. “Suspected domestic abuse. Do you understand?”
My blood ran cold.
Ethan would kill me if he found out I’d talked to the police.
He’d told me a hundred times what he’d do if I ever told anyone what went on behind closed doors.
I opened my mouth to say no.
To tell her it was a mistake.
That I’d handle it.
Then I remembered lying on that kitchen floor, listening to them laugh.
I remembered the cold rain on my face.
May you like
I remembered Mrs. Greene’s hand in mine.
“Yes,” I said, and for the first time in two years, my voice was strong. “I understand. I want to press charges.”
