“A robbery,” I said loud enough for all of them to hear. “That’s the story. Some junkie broke in and hit her. How many times?”
I looked at the medical chart I had swiped from the end of the bed.
“Thirty-one times,” I read aloud. “Thirty-one strikes with a blunt object. Probably a hammer.” I looked at Grant, then Ian, then Dominic. “A robber hits once to knock you down. Twice to keep you down. Thirty-one times…” I shook my head. “Thirty-one times is personal. Thirty-one times is hate.”
“Watch your mouth,” Dominic warned, stepping forward again.
“I’m going to find who did this,” I said, looking directly at Victor. “And when I do, I’m not going to call the police. I’m going to do what I was trained to do.”
I turned my back on them and walked toward the exit. I needed air, but more than that, I needed to get back to the house. The detective said it was a robbery, but my gut—the same instinct that kept me alive in the mountains of Afghanistan—told me the enemy wasn’t some stranger in the dark.
