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I nearly lost my sanity.
Blood.
It stained her lips.
And it wasn’t one cheek smeared with pink lipstick. Both were.
A faint purple hue dotted her jaw.
Her hair had definitely been pulled.
The hollowness of her dark eyes was the final blow.
None of the fire lit her irises.
He’d taken away her fire.
I would take away his. As soon as I found out who was responsible.
Gently, I placed her on the couch.
I wet a washcloth with warm water and found a bottle of peroxide in the medicine cabinet.
Rage.
I could barely move, I was so blinded by it. If she didn’t need me, I’d tear this city to pieces until I got my hands on the son of a bitch who hurt her.
We need photos.
So that asshole couldn’t get away with this. And she couldn't pretend it hadn’t happened. But I couldn't take them without her consent. And I didn't know how to ask without hurting her. Photographs were personal and invasive.
She lay curled on the sofa where I’d left her. The only indication there was any life inside her was the stilted rise and fall of her chest.
Carefully, I lifted her head and placed it on my lap. With the lightest touch, I wiped the lipstick from her face. She winced, but didn’t complain.
“I’m sorry. I’ll do this as quickly as I can.”
I willed my hand to stay steady, but my anger burned so hot I could barely contain it. At least once I cleaned the blood off her lower lip there was no cut beneath it. I couldn’t readily find anywhere the skin was broken.
I hoped she’d gotten a good lick in on whoever did this.
Ever so slowly I pulled the elastic from her hair. She hissed. I took a deep breath to regain control of my emotions.
“Want it back up?” I asked gruffly. She’d hate leaving her hair in disarray because someone had pulled it. I was going to fix it.
She nodded with the slightest of motions. I took extra care not to pull as I piled her hair into a ponytail. It was messy, but another visible reminder of what happened gone.
I took the peroxide and washcloth back to the bathroom and froze.
Had she been raped?
I swallowed around the knot in my throat. Had I just seen that she’d been roughed up because I couldn’t think beyond that?
Her clothes were dirty, but not torn. Did that mean anything?
I slammed my fist into the counter. One of the tiles busted, but I barely felt it.
Who had done this to her?
