He stood up slowly, his gaze shifting from the child to the holding cell where I sat. He walked over to the bars. He didn’t look at my face. He looked at my neck, where my hair had fallen forward, exposing the nape.

There, gleaming under the harsh lights, was a crescent-shaped keloid scar. It was raised, ugly, and old.

Richard noticed the doctor staring. “Is there a problem, Doctor?” he asked, his voice laced with a hint of arrogance. “That’s my wife. She’s having a breakdown.”

Dr. Evans turned slowly to face Richard. He looked at the bandage on Richard’s head, then back at me, then at Emily. The pieces of a horrific puzzle clicked into place in his mind—a mind trained to reconstruct violence from the silence of the dead.

“Sergeant,” Dr. Evans said, his voice low but carrying an authority that silenced the room. “Do not process this woman.”