Not random.
Intentional.
“She didn’t just fall,” one of the nurses murmured under her breath.
Lauren didn’t answer, but her jaw tightened.
“Start fluids. Prep for X-rays. Full panel labs. Let’s move.”
Through the glass panel of the trauma bay, Lauren could see Derek pacing in the hallway. His hands were knotted in his hair. He was performing distress to an audience that wasn’t watching him anymore.
He checked his watch.
That detail stuck.
Lauren stepped toward the computer terminal and opened Kiara’s electronic medical record.
The screen filled with visit summaries.
Emergency room. Urgent care. Walk-in clinic.
“Slipped in shower.”
“Cut while cooking.”
“Struck head on cabinet.”
Each entry signed by a different physician.
Each discharge summary short.
Each explanation neat.
Too neat.
Six months ago, one note glowed in red font:
Suspected domestic violence. Patient denied. Husband present.
Lauren exhaled slowly.
There it was.
The pattern that never showed itself all at once. The pattern that only emerged when someone finally looked.
“Call security,” Lauren said quietly. “And page social work. Now.”
The nurse didn’t hesitate.
In the hallway, Derek’s pacing sharpened. His panic was beginning to fray into impatience.
“How much longer?” he demanded at the front desk. “I need to see her.”
“You’ll have to wait,” the receptionist replied with professional calm.
Lauren stepped back into the trauma bay and reached for Kiara’s torn cardigan, intending to place it in a belongings bag.
Her fingers brushed something inside the pocket.
