I didn’t cry. The time for crying had ended on the kitchen floor.

I skipped the local clinic and drove straight to Cedars-Sinai. My hospital. My territory.

When I came through the trauma-bay doors, the triage nurses gasped — Dr. Lin, the unflappable neurosurgeon, gray and dripping with cold sweat.

“I slammed it in my car door,” I lied to the attending, my voice tight but controlled. “Freak accident. Prep me for X-rays and push two milligrams of Dilaudid.”

I had to protect the truth a little longer. If I reported an assault now, police would arrive while David and Barbara were still in the house, giving them time to align their lies, maybe wipe the kitchen or get into the router.

I needed to move in the right order.