It Was My Turn to Take the Case

He grabbed his radio without another word.

With him handled, I crossed to my father and got an arm around his waist to help him up. But as he pushed off the chair, his knees buckled and he stumbled, letting out a sharp gasp of pain.

I shot my hand out and caught his forearm before he hit the floor — and the jerk dragged the thick cuff of his wool sweater up toward his elbow.

My eyes locked on the skin it uncovered, and the blood in my veins turned to ice.

The Wrists

Deep purple bruises ringed both of his wrists — complete, unmistakable bands, the color of something dying.

I scrapped my plan to take him home for the night on the spot. I half-carried him to the passenger seat of my government SUV and drove straight to the emergency room at City General.