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“I had no way of knowing.”
“On your second or third encounter, you told investigators there was something different about Laurel. Can you tell me what that was?”
“She had a bruise on her shoulder,” I reply, easily picturing it in my mind.
“And?”
“I asked her what happened.”
“So you noticed it straightaway?”
“It was a large bruise.”
“What did she say about it?”
“She said she ran into the corner of a wall in the middle of the night.”
“Did you question her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
There hadn’t been much time for talking. “She didn’t seem like she wanted to discuss it.”
“What did you think had happened?”
“I believed her explanation.”
“But then on a subsequent encounter there were more bruises?”
“Yes.”
“And those, where were they located?”
“On her back, mostly.”
“Did you question her then?”
“Not with words.”
Dr. Jones looks disappointed. Or disbelieving. Maybe a little of both. “Then how?”
“You know, other ways.”
She cocks her head, narrows her eyes. She’s intrigued and yet trying hard not to show it. Although, I’m not sure why. This is her job. “And her response was what?”
“I can’t recall. I think she changed the subject.”
“Did you suspect she was being abused?”
“No.”
“No?” Dr. Jones fixes her eyes on mine. “You see, Dr. Hastings—as a physician—I have a very hard time believing that.”
“Either way, it wasn’t my place to ask.”
“Why not?”
