“Good morning, Jessi.”
“Morning?”
He glanced at the clock.
“Nine twenty-three.”
I stared at him.
“I’ve been asleep that long?”
“You’ve been under anesthesia and heavy medication for several hours.”
I tried to sit up.
He raised a hand.
“Slowly.”
“What happened to my ankle?”
Dr. Hale pulled a chair beside the bed.
“The infection had spread much deeper than we initially thought.”
My stomach tightened.
“Could I have died?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
That silence was enough.
“Yes,” he finally said.
I closed my eyes.
A strange calm came over me.
Not because I wasn’t frightened.
Because some part of me had already known.
Seven days of fever.
Seven days of Luca telling me to wait.
Seven days of watching my condition deteriorate while he insisted I was being dramatic.
I opened my eyes again.
“Was it an ordinary infection?”
“No.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
“What was it?”
“We’re still waiting on the final laboratory analysis, but the tissue damage was consistent with an introduced contaminant.”
“Introduced?”
“Something was deliberately introduced through the puncture wound.”
My hands began shaking.
Dr. Hale noticed.
“We’re not saying exactly what yet.”
“But you know something.”
“We have enough to be concerned.”
“About Luca?”
The doctor looked directly at me.
“We need to ask you some questions about your husband.”
My chest tightened.
“What kind of questions?”
“When did he first treat the wound?”
“Six days ago.”
“Did he have medical training?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you what he was applying?”
“No.”
“Did he ever inject anything?”
I stared at him.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see a needle?”
I thought about the silver object between Luca’s fingers.
“I saw something metallic.”
“Where?”
“In our bedroom.”
“How many times?”
“At least twice.”
Dr. Hale nodded slowly.
“Did you ever see a syringe?”
I swallowed.
“Once.”
The room went silent.
“What happened to it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Luca dispose of it?”
“I think so.”
Dr. Hale exchanged a glance with the nurse.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
“Jessi, the police are here.”
I stared at the door.
“Now?”
“They’ve been here since early this morning.”
“Why?”
“They’re investigating whether your injury was intentionally caused.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand everything yet.”
“I need to know.”
Dr. Hale leaned forward.
“The laboratory found traces of an unusual chemical compound in material taken from your wound.”
My breathing stopped.
“What kind?”
“We don’t have a final identification.”
“Was it poison?”
He paused.
“Potentially.”
I felt the room tilt.
“Could Luca have done that?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Why not?”
“Because suspicion isn’t evidence.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Suspicion isn’t evidence.
It was the first thing anyone had said since I arrived that made me feel like I was still a person rather than a case.
Then the door opened again.
Two police officers stepped inside.
The woman introduced herself as Detective Sarah Collins.
The man beside her was Detective Aaron Price.
Detective Collins pulled a chair close to my bed.
“We need to talk about your husband.”
I stared at her.
“What did he do?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Then why are you here?”
She looked at Dr. Hale.
He gave a small nod.
Detective Collins opened a folder.
“We received a call from the hospital after your doctors reported concerns about the injury.”
She paused.
“Your husband has already contacted us.”
My heart sank.
“He knows I’m here?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He said you have a history of health anxiety.”
I laughed.
I couldn’t stop myself.
It came out weak and bitter.
“Of course he did.”
Detective Collins watched me carefully.
“Is that true?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been diagnosed with anxiety?”
“No.”
“Have you ever imagined being sick when you weren’t?”
“No.”
She wrote something down.
Then she asked the question I had been dreading.
“Why do you think your husband discouraged you from going to the hospital?”
I stared at the ceiling.
Because I had spent seven days making excuses for him.
Because I had believed every lie was smaller than the truth.
Because admitting what I suspected meant admitting I had married a man capable of hurting me.
“I don’t know.”
Detective Collins closed the folder.
“That’s okay.”
She stood.
“We’ll speak again later.”
“Detective?”
She turned.
“Is Luca here?”
“No.”
I felt something inside me loosen.
Then she added,
“But he’s not where you think he is.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Detective Collins looked at me for a long moment.
“He left your house at 4:12 this morning.”
My pulse quickened.
“Where did he go?”
“We’re still trying to determine that.”
After they left, I stared at the closed door.
Luca had always been predictable.
He worked from home.
He streamed games.
He complained when I was sick.
He went to bed late.
He woke late.
He never disappeared.
But now, while I was unconscious in a hospital bed fighting for my life, my husband had left our house before dawn.
The nurse adjusted my IV.
“You should rest.”
“I can’t.”
“You need to.”
“My husband might have tried to kill me.”
She froze.
I immediately regretted saying it.
But once the words were spoken, they couldn’t be taken back.
She looked at me with quiet compassion.
“Then you’re exactly where you need to be.”
Hours later, my surgeon returned.
This time, he brought another doctor with him.
“This is Dr. Elena Ward, infectious disease.”
She sat beside me.
“We have preliminary results.”
I gripped the blanket.
“What did you find?”
Dr. Ward opened a folder.
“The substance in your wound appears to have been intentionally introduced.”
My heart pounded.
“Was it medication?”
“No.”
“Cleaning solution?”
“No.”
“Something poisonous?”
“Not exactly.”
She hesitated.
“It appears to have been a concentrated biological culture.”
I stared at her.
“I don’t understand.”
“Something capable of causing an aggressive infection.”
I felt sick.
“Where would someone get that?”
“That’s part of what investigators are trying to determine.”
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