Chapter 3
The air takes my breath. The swirling wind bites through my thin shirt. I slowly climb out of my window, being mindful of each ache in my body.
The rain hits my skin like shards of glass. The sky is wide open, water soaking through everything.
I need to get away. To find help. Anything to escape from this hellhole.
From him.
I need to get to Maeve’s.
I stagger, my vision spins and tilts.
I stumble down the road, using the parked cars to keep from swaying. My body rocks like I’m on a boat in a storm, everything pitching. My surroundings blur into one long smear of light and noise.
My eyes pulse. Sounds are louder now. The hiss of tires on wet pavement. The echo of my own ragged breathing. My limbs feel heavy. My skin too tight.
Everything hurts.
Then —
A flash of light.
A blaring horn.
Tires screeching.
Darkness.
Another bright light. I think my body is moving.
A mixture of faded voices around me. The voices multiply and overlap.
“She’s bleeding.”
“Possible abdominal trauma.”
I’m underwater, the words blur. The voices fading farther and farther.
There’s a soft light, it’s warm and inviting. I’m so tired.
“She’s crashing! Get a crash cart now!”
Then blissful nothingness.
The rhythmic beeping is strangely comforting. There’s a weight in my stomach, it’s not painful, just pressure. Like something heavy is resting there, stitched into me.
Slowly, my vision comes into focus — soft lights, clean sheets.
My throat is dry, and my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. My head pounds. There’s an IV in my arm, a pulse monitor beside me.
Hospital.
I don’t remember deciding to stay alive, but… here I am.
A figure moves in my periphery. I turn my head. A woman in her late thirties, maybe, lab coat, tired eyes. She stands up.
“You’re awake.” Her voice is gentle. “You gave us a scare.”
I try to speak, but nothing comes out. She pours a cup of water and helps me sit up just enough to sip.
“What happened?” I croak.
“You wandered out into the street and collapsed. Luckily, the driver was able to stop and didn’t hit you. He brought you to the hospital.”
I blink.
“You had internal bleeding from a laceration on your liver. We operated to fix it. You also had a deep cut on the back of your head, we sewed that up as well, and you have a concussion. You were very lucky.”
I don’t feel lucky. I feel like someone scooped out all my insides, and now I’m just an empty carton of ice cream someone discarded in the trash.
“Can you tell me your name?” She walks to the table at the end of my bed, flipping open my chart.
“Is—” I clear my throat. “Isobel Mason.”
“Date of birth?”
“June 27th.”
“How old did you turn yesterday?”
“Eighteen.”
I see the change in her eyes, from sadness to empathy. The pieces are clicking into place.
“Is there anyone I can call for you?”
Only one name comes to mind. Fuck, that’s depressing.
“Yes, please. My best friend, Maeve.”
“Alright, write her number down, I’ll call her.” She hands me a notepad and a pen. I scribble down her number and hand it back.
“While you were unconscious…” She pauses and folds her hands in front of her. “We ran full imaging. Scans. X-rays.”
I nod, barely.
She doesn’t look away. Her voice stays calm. “Isobel…there are signs of long-term physical abuse. Multiple old fractures. Ribs, wrist, cheekbone. Several healed improperly. Scarring consistent with burns and deep cuts. Severe tissue bruising over time.”
Each word feels like another layer being peeled away. Someone is finally looking at the damage. She’s not asking. She’s not guessing. She knows, the proof shown all over my films.
“None of this is new. And none of it is your fault.”
I stare at her hands resting on the table. She doesn’t rush me. I can’t bring myself to meet her eyes, not wanting to see the pity in them.
CLANG.
I jump, the beeping accelerating.
“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” She crosses over to me and reaches out to soothe me.
I flinch.
She immediately lifts her hands.
“It was just a tray, you’re okay. Take a slow, deep breath for me.”
I turn to see a nurse picking up different packages off the floor and putting them on a metal tray.
The beeping starts to slow. I close my eyes and focus on breathing.
“That’s it.” She continues quietly, “The police have been notified. They’ll want to speak with you when you’re ready. But right now, you’re safe. No one can hurt you.”
Safe.
I don’t know how to operate inside this body. Don’t know how to live in the skin they stitched shut. She watches me a moment longer, then reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a small badge clipped to her ID.
“I’m Dr. Ramirez. I’m the trauma surgeon on call tonight, and I’ll be overseeing your care while you’re here.”
I nod again, just barely. It feels like I’m watching this happen to someone else.
“There’s something else we need to talk about,” she says, her voice quiet but clear.
She shifts slightly, putting her hands in the pockets of her white coat.
“When you arrived, you had injuries that suggested recent sexual trauma. We treated what we could, but we haven’t performed a forensic exam.”
The words sound like another language. I hear them, but I can’t understand them. Not fully, at least.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” she adds. “But the sooner we do it, the more evidence we can preserve. It’s completely your choice. No one will force you. We’ll support you either way.”
I stare at her. She’s not looking away. Not awkward. Not pitying. Just present.
“Okay, let’s do it.”
“All right,” she says. “We’ll have a nurse come in shortly. Someone who is trained specifically for this. She’ll walk you through every step.”
Dr. Ramirez walks to the open door of my room and leans out, calling a name. I feel dirty and I want to shower. But I’ve seen the shows, I won’t be able to until this is over.
There’s a soft knock, and Dr. Ramirez steps aside to let in a woman wearing light blue scrubs, a warm cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. Mid-40s, calm eyes. Clipboard in one hand, a wheeled cart in the other.
“Isobel,” Dr. Ramirez says, “this is Nurse Lang. She’s a certified SANE, which stands for Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner. She’s here to walk you through the next part, if you’re ready.”
I sit up a little straighter. My voice is barely a whisper. “Okay.”
Dr. Ramirez nods at us and leaves, shutting the door behind her. Nurse Lang gives a small, reassuring smile.
“Hi, Isobel. I’m really sorry you’re going through this. But I want you to know, I’m here for you. Everything we do tonight is in your control, all right?”
I nod. She rolls the cart over slowly and sets her clipboard down.
“I’ll explain everything before we begin. You can stop at any time. You can skip any step. You don’t even have to answer my questions if you don’t want to. This exam is here to collect evidence, but only if you consent.”
My hands twist the blanket in my lap.
“I want to do it,” I murmur. “Just… I want to get this over with.”
She nods once, understanding. “I understand. If for any reason, you need a break, just let me know and we’ll stop immediately.”
She pulls on gloves, her movements calm, practiced.
“What happened to my clothes?”
“They were bagged as evidence.”
“There was a photo strip in my back pocket. Can I get that back?”
“I will make a note for them to take a look and get that back for you, okay?”
I nod, and Nurse Lang scribbles on her clipboard.
“First, I’ll ask you a few questions, just basic medical history, and anything you remember about what happened. I know it’s hard. You don’t have to go into detail unless you want to.”
I nod again.
“Then we’ll begin the exam. That will include collecting samples, swabs, photographs of injuries if you consent, and a physical exam. I’ll narrate every step before I do it and ask before I touch you.”
“Will it hurt?” I’m not sure she heard me.
But her face fills with compassion.
“Some parts might be uncomfortable. But we’ll go slowly, and you can ask me to stop at any time. You’re safe here.”
There’s something in the way she says it that makes it almost feel true. Not just words. A promise.
She moves around the bed, prepping supplies, her presence is warm and comfortable. No rush. No drama. Just a woman who believes in me and knows what to do. I let myself exhale. Nurse Lang sits beside the bed, clipboard balanced on her knee.
“We’ll start with the questions. If you don’t know the answer or don’t want to say, just tell me. Okay?”
I nod.
She keeps her voice soft. “Do you know the name of the person who assaulted you?”
“Daniel Mercer.” His name tastes like rot in my mouth.
“Relationship to you?”
I hesitate. “Stepfather.”
She doesn’t blink. No surprise. No pity. Just a quiet, “Thank you.”
More questions follow: recent showers, the last time I used the bathroom, and how long I was in the rain. I answer what I can. She never pushes.
“I’ll start with a few photographs of visible injuries, only if you consent. Then I’ll examine you, check for tears or bruising, and collect samples.”
I nod. “It’s okay.”
She pulls a warm sheet up over me. “I’ll make sure you’re covered the whole time. I’ll walk you through everything. Just breathe with me.”
The camera clicks softly.
My arms. My thighs. My ribs. My back. The fading yellow of old bruises layered under the new.
She pauses at one point, gently lifting the collar of my gown to reveal a hand-shaped bruise.
“This one’s fresh,” she says, voice like silk. “I’m documenting the shape, don’t move, you’re doing great.”
The exam itself is slow, clinical. I flinch at parts. Bite the inside of my cheek. But she doesn’t let it get away from me.
“You’re safe,” she repeats, again and again. “You’re doing exactly what you need to do.” Her voice pulls me back when I start to feel like I’m floating away from my body.
I’m shaking by the end. Silent tears streaming down my cheeks. But I did it. It’s done. She covers me back up, snaps off her gloves, and looks me in the eye.
“You did something incredibly hard tonight, Isobel. I’m proud of you.”
The words don’t sink in. Not yet. But I hold onto them anyway. Nurse Lang is just finishing packing up the kit when there’s a knock at the door. She looks over.
Dr. Ramirez steps in, followed by a man in a plain suit and a badge clipped to his belt. Early 40s. Not the kind of cop who wants to scare you, at least not today.
“Isobel,” Dr. Ramirez gestures to the man beside her, “this is Detective Harlan. He’s here to take your statement, only if you’re ready.”
I nod.
Nurse Lang exchanges a few words with Dr. Ramirez and Detective Harlan.
Their voices low and quiet. Then she rolls her cart out with a silent nod.
Dr Ramirez closes the door behind her, then stands against the wall.
Detective Harlan walks over and positions himself at the foot of my bed, opening a small notebook on the table.
“I know you’ve been through something awful tonight, Isobel,” he says, voice even and slow. “And I’m not here to push you. But I want to ask a few questions while the details are still fresh. Just what you know. What you remember.”
“Oh, I’m sure I’m not going to forget this night any time soon.” I know the sarcasm won’t do anything but I can’t help it.
He glances at Dr. Ramirez, then back at me. “We’re trying to get a clearer picture of your situation.”
I swallow hard.
“He’s not my real dad,” I say. My voice is hoarse. “Daniel. He’s just been around since I was five. My mom—” I stop. I don’t know what to say about her. About what she didn’t do.
“Okay.” He nods. “And do you know your mother’s full name?”
“Celia Mercer,” I whisper. “But she used to go by Mason before she got married. “
He scribbles something down, the sound of his pen scratching the paper comforting me somehow.
“Is your biological father in the picture?”
The fuzzy memory of him making waffles that morning flashes in my mind.
I shake my head. “My mom has never told me who he was. Always said he was gone.”
“Gone?” Detective Harlan raises an eyebrow.
“She didn’t clarify…but from what little I can remember of him, it doesn’t seem like him to just leave. And I think I would’ve remembered if he died.”
The soft look in his eyes as he watched my mom, when he looked at me.
What happened?
My mind starts to race, trying to think back.
“I remember we left and then met with Daniel. Could he have done something to my dad?” If my eyes get any wider, they’re going to fall out and roll across the floor.
Detective Harlan nods. “It’s possible. Especially with Daniel’s violent history.”
“Is there any way you can find him?”
“If Daniel did do something, he could be missing. We can try to take your DNA to get a familial match in the Missing Persons Database.”
“Yes. Please, can we do that?”
“Of course, I’ll have an officer come by with a saliva kit shortly.” Detective Harlan closes his notebook, folding his hands over it. “Isobel, I need you to understand this is a long shot. But I promise I’ll do my best to find him for you. I’ll put a rush on it in the lab.”
“Thank you.” I force a smile.
What’s one more swab?
“Of course.” He opens his notebook again, steadying his pen. “Can you take me through what happened to you?”
The door swings open with such a rush it hits the wall.
“Isobel!”
I flip the blanket off my head and turn. Maeve barrels toward me, her hair wild, eyes glassy with panic. She stops next to my bed, mouth agape, as her eyes travel over me.
“Oh my…” she whispers. Her hand trembles as she brings it up to her mouth. “Iz…” Her eyes well.
I reach for her, fists clinging to her sleeves and pull her to me. Maeve wraps her arms around me before I can say a word. Her arms tighten as if she lets go I’ll disintegrate into dust and float away on the wind.
“Isobel, honey, are you alright?” Maeve’s mom rushes in, setting her purse down in the seat next to my bed.
“Hi, Brenda, I’m okay.” I melt into her as she wraps her arms around me.
“When they called, Maeve and I…” She pulls back, her eyes soft and warm as she runs a hand down the side of my face. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
I shake my head, taking a shaky breath. “No, please don’t apologize. There’s nothing you need to be sorry for.”
Brenda takes a seat as Maeve gets comfortable on the bed.
“What happened?” Maeve takes my hand.
I take a deep breath and give them the highlights of the night. I watch as Brenda’s face pales, while Maeve’s fills with anger.
“You’re coming to stay with us when you’re discharged. I’m not taking no for an answer.” Maeve’s eyes bore into me. “That fucking asshole! I can’t believe he touched you! What a sick perv!”
“Language, Maeve,” Brenda scolds, but there’s no weight behind it.
Maeve rolls her eyes. “Whatever, Mom. You know it’s true. I hope they lock him up and throw the key somewhere in the ocean.”
I chuckle. “You and me both.”