Chapter 4 - Behind Closed Doors
Examination Room 4 was freezing. The fluorescent lights hummed with an irritating, high-pitched whine that vibrated right inside my skull.
Two nurses worked quickly and methodically to remove my sweater. Because raising my left arm sent blinding bolts of lightning through my shoulder blade, they had to use heavy medical shears to cut the thick wool down the side. As the fabric fell away, the harsh overhead light illuminated my torso.
The skin from my left hip up to my armpit was already blooming into a terrifying canvas of deep indigo, purple, and sickly yellow-green. Across my upper back ran a distinct, horizontal welt where the wooden banister had caught me on the way down.
Nurse Henderson inhaled sharply, exchanging a grim look with her colleague.
“We’re going to need a full trauma panel, immediate X-rays of the ribs, pelvis, and cervical spine, and a stat CT scan of the abdomen,” Nurse Henderson murmured, gently palpating the swollen area around my lower ribs.
I winced, biting my lower lip until I tasted copper.
“Is she going to be okay?” Graham asked from the corner of the room. He had managed to follow us in despite his outburst, standing with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, projecting an aura of aggrieved martyrdom.
Neither nurse dignified his question with an answer.
Ten minutes later, the door swung open and Dr. Evan Mercer walked in. He was in his late forties, with silver-streaked hair, tired eyes that spoke of endless night shifts, and an aura of absolute calm authority. He washed his hands at the sink, dried them with a paper towel, and turned his full, undivided attention to me.
He didn’t look at Graham. He didn’t look at the clipboard first. He looked straight into my eyes.
“Hello, Nora. I’m Dr. Mercer. I’ve reviewed the triage notes from Nurse Henderson. Can you tell me in your own words what brought you into our ER tonight?”
I swallowed hard, my throat raw. “My mother-in-law shoved me down a flight of wooden stairs during Sunday dinner.”
Graham pushed off the wall, stepping forward with an oily smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Doctor, let’s be entirely reasonable here. Nora has a history of anxiety and high stress. The family was having a tense afternoon, she got overwhelmed, tripped over her own feet, and took a clumsy fall. It’s an unfortunate domestic accident, nothing more.”
Dr. Mercer slowly turned his head to look at Graham. The silence stretched for three agonizing seconds.
“Mr. Hayes,” Dr. Mercer said, his voice quiet, steady, and laden with a chilling finality. “An adult woman with a shattered casserole dish embedded in her clothing, massive deep-tissue bruising across her entire left flank, and linear impact marks across her back did not simply ‘trip.’ That is not a domestic accident. That is a high-velocity blunt-force trauma event.”
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Graham’s jaw tightened. “You’re taking the word of a hysterical woman over an entire family’s account?”
“I take the word of physical evidence,” Dr. Mercer replied coldly. “And right now, the physical evidence tells me my patient was assaulted. Nurses, let’s get her down to radiology immediately. Full skeletal survey and contrast CT.”
