Chapter 1 - The Bruises Beneath His Sweater
My father’s knees buckled the moment I helped him out of the plastic chair.
I caught him under the arms before his head hit the tile floor of the Marion County Police Station. His sweater rode up, exposing a row of dark bruises along his ribs.
Not one bruise. Not two.
A pattern.
“Dad,” I said. “Who did this?”
Frank Hayes looked past me toward my brother.
Evan stood beside his wife near the interview-room door, his arms folded as if we were discussing a dented car instead of our father’s body. Priscilla pressed a tissue to a faint red mark on her shoulder.
“He came at me with the bat,” she said. “I had to protect myself.”
“That’s not what he told me.”
Officer Miller stepped between us. “Ma’am, your father appears confused. Your sister-in-law says he’s been showing signs of paranoia.”
I took out my credentials and laid them on the front desk.
The federal badge caught the fluorescent light.
Miller’s irritation disappeared. “Ma’am, I… I didn’t realize—”
“My job isn’t the issue,” I said. “His condition is.”
Dad tightened his grip on my sleeve. His fingers were cold.
At 2:27 that morning, he had called me from the station and whispered that Priscilla had beaten him with a baseball bat while Evan watched. His voice had cracked when he said my brother’s name.
Priscilla stepped closer. “He needs a psychiatric hold before he hurts someone.”
She said it too quickly, like a line she’d practiced.
Evan finally looked at me. “Claire, stay out of this.”
I had spent twelve years interviewing people who wanted control of a story. Evan wasn’t afraid for our father. He was afraid I might ask the right question.
Dad tried to straighten. Pain folded him forward.
“Call an ambulance,” I told Miller.
Priscilla shook her head. “That’s unnecessary.”
Dad looked at me, then at Evan.
May you like
“He knows why,” he whispered.
Before I could ask what that meant, he collapsed against my chest.
