Chapter 1 - THE SMELL BENEATH THE CASTThe smell reached Dr. Sarah Jenkins before my stretcher crossed the emergency-room doors.
Sweet.
Metallic.
Rotten.
By then I had a fever of 103.8 and could barely remember my own address.
My right arm felt as though somebody had packed fire beneath the month-old fiberglass cast. My fingers were swollen, purple at the tips, and so numb I couldn't tell when the nurse touched them.
My husband remained calm.
“She has the flu,” Daniel told the triage nurse.
Sarah looked at him.
Then at me.
Then down at the filthy cast extending from my upper forearm to my hand.
“I need circulation checked now.”
Daniel smiled the polished smile he'd used on clients, bankers, my mother, and me for most of our six-year marriage.
“She gets dramatic when she's sick.”
I tried to say his name.
Only air came out.
Sarah was already beside me.
“Emily, can you hear me?”
I nodded.
“When did this cast go on?”
I looked toward Daniel.
That was mistake number one.
Sarah saw it.
Daniel answered.
“Four weeks ago. She fell in the garage.”
“Follow-up appointment?”
“She was fine.”
Sarah's eyes returned to my fingers.
“No, she isn't.”
Within minutes I had IV fluids, blood cultures, antibiotics, cardiac monitoring, and three people moving around me faster than my fevered mind could follow.
Then Sarah returned carrying a powered cast saw.
Daniel's composure disappeared.
“What are you doing?”
“Removing the cast.”
“You don't need to do that.”
“We absolutely do.”
The motor started.
Its vibration traveled through the fiberglass.
Daniel stepped forward.
“Touch that cast and you'll regret it.”
Sarah stopped the blade.
Not because she was frightened.
Because she wanted to hear him clearly.
Marcus Reed, the ER nurse beside the instrument tray, slowly turned toward Daniel.
Sarah said:
“Your wife's hand has impaired circulation, she's febrile, and I'm concerned about a serious infection. This cast is coming off.”
Daniel's eyes remained fixed on one spot near my wrist.
Not on my face.
Not on the monitor.
The cast.
I noticed because I knew that look.
He had worn it the night I broke my arm.
Sarah restarted the saw.
Daniel grabbed her forearm.
Everything happened quickly.
Sarah jerked free.
Marcus stepped between them.
The steel tray rattled.
“Your wife could die if I leave this closed,” Sarah said.
Daniel didn't touch her again.
He stood inches away, breathing hard.
Then he said the sentence that changed the room.
“She fell. That's all you need to know.”
Sarah stared at him.
I pulled my arm toward my chest.
The movement exposed a damaged section near the cast's lower edge.
Sarah saw it.
A dark strip of stained fabric.
And something beneath it.
A thin metallic edge.
Daniel saw her see it.
Sarah slowly placed the saw against the fiberglass again.
Marcus moved beside her.
Daniel raised one hand.
Stopped himself.
Sarah said quietly:
“You're not afraid of the surgery.”
She looked from him to the damaged opening.
“You're afraid of the cast.”
Daniel's face drained.
The saw started again.
The fiberglass split.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
I expected pain.
Instead I heard Sarah say:
“Marcus.”
One word.
Different voice.
Then:
“Don't touch that.”
I opened my eyes.
Sarah was holding apart two sections of cut fiberglass.
Wedged between the original cast and a newer outer layer was a small black cloth pouch darkened by weeks of moisture.
Something silver protruded from it.
Marcus looked at Daniel.
Daniel moved toward the bed.
Security stopped him at the door.
Sarah removed the outer fiberglass carefully.
The black wrapping loosened.
Inside it was a small metal-edged electronic security key.
I recognized the logo immediately.
So did Daniel.
Bennett Industrial Systems.
My family's company.
The security key had disappeared three weeks earlier.
A week after Daniel broke my arm.
And as Sarah continued cutting, I finally understood something that frightened me more than the infection.
May you like
Daniel hadn't merely prevented me from getting medical care.
He had used my body to hide something.
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