My husband beat me until I lost consciousness, then calmly told everyone at the hospital I had “slipped in the shower.”

She was perhaps in her early forties, with dark hair pulled into a low knot and a gray jacket that looked too light for the cold outside.

She introduced herself without lowering her voice into false sympathy.

“I understand you’ve already told the medical staff that your husband caused your injuries.”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to speak with you when your doctor says you’re able. It does not have to happen this minute.”

“I can talk.”

Priya looked at me.

“You have two fractured ribs, a concussion, and significant soft tissue injuries. Talking to a detective is your decision, but you don’t have to prove anything tonight.”

The old instinct rose immediately.

I do have to prove it.

I had spent most of my adult life assembling evidence.

Numbers did not care who told the better story.