Grossman sent me on my way with seventeen stitches and a prescription for some antibiotics, anti-inflammatory steroids, and pain meds. But not before questioning me about my medical history. She was appalled to find I hadn’t been to a doctor in five years and that was only because I broke my shoulder while sparring with my father. I’ve never even been vaccinated.

She took some blood tests and told me to come back in ten days to have the stitches removed and to get some vaccinations. Then she asked me when the first day of my last period was.

“Why does that matter?”

“It’s a standard question.”

I glared at her from the examination table. “Eight days ago.”

“Are you sexually active?” There’s a long pause, then she continued. “I’m not trying to pry, Alex. But I need to make sure there’s no possibility that you’re pregnant. And I need to know if we need to schedule a gynecological exam for your next visit.”

“I don’t want an exam.”

“Alex, it’s a normal part of being a woman. You should have been taught this in school. Once you turn eighteen, you should be getting a gynecological exam once a year. More often if you’re sexually active.”

“I’m not sexually active.”

“Have you ever been sexually active?”

Her pen was poised over my medical file, ready to jot down whatever answer I gave her.

“No.”

She scribbled something in the file, then she handed me my prescription and shook my hand. Making me promise I’d be back in ten days to complete the treatment. She’d never see me again.

I don’t care if she was extremely sensitive to my situation. Never asking why I wore this disguise. Never commenting on what she saw when she lifted my sweatshirt. Never asking how I got stabbed in the first place. She knew too much about me now. If Rousseau wanted to, he could use that information to take me down.

I reach up and grab the back of the sofa to pull myself up. Time to change the dressing on my wound. I make my way into the kitchen and switch on the stove light. A small collection of first aid implements are lined up on the counter next to the stove: four-inch by four-inch gauze squares, a box of sterile cotton pads, medical tape, saline wound wash, and antibiotic ointment. This collection standing next to my stockpile of drugs.

I haven’t taken any of the pain meds for fear that Rousseau or one of Shorty’s friends will show up at my door and I’ll be too drugged up to fight back. But it’s been six days since I visited Dr. Grossman and my stitches have been oozing and the pain is coming back. I don’t want to go back to Highland, but I don’t want my tombstone to read: She refused to see a doctor.

I’ve always imagined my tombstone saying something like, Head chopped off by Samurai master, or, A Samurai ripped out her heart with his bare hands.

Yes, I’ve watched too many Tarantino films. My father was obsessed with them.

He probably still is. But I may never know. I doubt I’ll ever go home to see my parents.

I begin my nightly ritual of cleaning my wound and applying a new dressing by opening a box of gauze. I pull out a packet and set it aside, then I remove the caps from the wound wash and antibiotic ointment. I tear off a few strips of medical tape and hang them from the edge of the counter. Open a packet of sterile cotton, I then squeeze a little of the saline wound solution onto the cotton pad. Then begins the worst part.

I grab a piece of the tape securing my dressing to my skin and begin to slowly peel it away. My skin is red and raw from changing my dressing twice daily; once in the morning and once before bed. Each time I peel away the tape, more skin comes away. So now I’m left with a screaming pink square of raw skin boxing in my knife wound.

I peel away the top half of the dressing, but that’s as far as it will go. The gauze is stuck to the wound with crusted pus and blood. I pull a little harder and suck in a sharp breath at the searing pain. Tears stream down my face as I inch closer to the oven to get a better look at the wound under the stove light.

Shit.

I pulled out a stitch.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Fuck!

I stick the tape back onto my skin and turn off the light. Pulling down my sweatshirt, I walk toward the door, breathing in my usual composure. Trying to pretend I’m not at all broken.

I peer through the peephole and I recognize the shape of the head under the black hoodie. Rousseau has his back to the door. A show of faith demonstrating he doesn’t expect me to open the door and attack him from behind. And also a friendly display of submission. He’s showing me that I can trust him. He’s not going to attack me either.

I unlock the door and walk into the kitchen. “Come in,” I shout across the breakfast bar and into the darkness.

He opens the door slowly, but he steps inside and closes the door quickly. “Better?” he asks, referring to the closed door.

“Thank you, Detective.”

“Please, call me Daimon.”

Daimon Rousseau. Daimon pronounced Deh-món. So French. And something about knowing his first name, even if it’s not real, makes me less tense.

“Why are you here, Daimon?” Saying the name aloud feels even better. If he weren’t here, I’d probably start repeating it. Daimon. Daimon. Daimon.

“I told you I would be back. I still need to take your statement.” I can see his silhouette move and hear the soft crush of the carpet beneath his shoes as he takes a few steps toward the breakfast bar.

“I already told you, I didn’t see anything. But even if I did, shouldn’t another detective be taking my statement? After all, you are the … I’m sorry, but are you the victim or the perpetrator in this crime?”

He lets out a brief chuckle at this question. “I am neither. I’m the responding officer in this case. You were the intended victim.”

“Right. Well, I have nothing to tell you. I didn’t see anything and I’m quite busy. I’d appreciate it if you left.”

“Forgive my intrusion. I didn’t realize you were busy standing in the dark.”

“I wasn’t standing in the dark.”

“How is your stab wound?”

I pause to take a deep breath as I remember the questions Grossman asked. And my stupidity for answering.

“Not very well, actually. Your doctor asked too many questions and I don’t think she did a good job cleaning the wound.”

“Let me see.”

“Excuse me?”

“Let me see the wound?”

“I’m not going to let you see it.”

“Then I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care if you believe me.”

“Yes, you do.”

I grip the edge of the breakfast bar to keep from grabbing something to throw at him.

“Let me see it,” he insists. “If it’s infected, you need medical attention.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“I have a lot of experience with knife wounds. Just let me have a look at it. Or you can just lay here and die. It’s up to you.”

“You think you’re so smart,” I huff. “I can’t show it to you. The dressing is stuck.”

“Lie down on the sofa and I’ll get it unstuck.”

My heart pounds with anticipation. Am I really going to let this stranger help me? Am I going to let him touch me?

I can’t face Dr. Grossman after this. Not with her threatening to probe my privates in the name of medicine. This is less traumatizing. This is nothing.

I turn around and gather the supplies off the counter. Then I carry them, cradled in my arms, into the dark living room. I drop everything onto the coffee table and push the table back a little so he can kneel next to me. Then I sit down on the sofa.

He walks slowly, looking almost like a blind person as he taps his toe on the carpet in front of him with each step. Making sure he doesn’t bump into anything. When he reaches the coffee table, he bends down and feels his way around it until he’s about to step on my foot. I quickly pull my legs up onto the sofa as he kneels down.