“Maya,” I breathed, dropping to my knees on the freezing wood.
I didn’t ask if she was okay. A trauma nurse never asks a bleeding patient if they are okay. I slid my arms under her shoulders, wincing as she cried out in pain, and half-carried, half-dragged her into the warmth of the kitchen.
I eased her into a sturdy wooden chair at the kitchen table. The harsh overhead fluorescent light revealed the true extent of the horror. There were dark, violent finger-marks blooming on her pale throat. Her designer sweater—a gift from her husband’s family—was torn at the shoulder, revealing scraped, raw skin beneath.
I moved with clinical, detached speed. I wet a clean washcloth with cold water and gently pressed it against her swollen eye.
“Maya,” I asked softly, keeping my voice entirely level. “Who did this? What happened?”
She leaned into my touch, her good eye fluttering open, swimming in tears of profound, shattering betrayal.
