“She didn’t fall,” Liam said, his voice low, vibrating with a rage so deep it sounded like a funeral bell.

Ethan’s smile faltered, just for a second. “I beg your pardon? The floor was wet, she—”

“I’ve spent fifteen years looking at trauma, Mr. Vale,” Liam interrupted. “I know the difference between a slip on tile and the impact of a closed fist.

I know the pattern of fingers on a neck when someone tries to stifle a scream.”

He reached for the wall phone without looking away from my husband.

“Security to Trauma Room 4. Immediately,” he ordered. “And call the police. Tell them we have a suspected felony assault.”