Chapter 3: Broken Promises and Bruises

3

Back home, I pushed Mr. Carter into his room, put the sunflowers in a vase, then returned to the living room and asked Andrea, "Detective Owens, what would you like to drink? Juice or bottled water?"

The fridge hummed, full of leftovers and memories. "Do you have hot water?" Andrea asked.

I nodded, went to the kitchen, and poured a cup of hot water.

The steam curled up in lazy spirals as I brought the mug out. When I returned, Andrea had already wandered into the study.

She ran her fingers along the spines of the books, trailing dust. I looked over in surprise, but Andrea was perusing the bookshelves and called out, "So many medical books? Are they all yours and Mr. Carter’s?"

She picked up a thick, dog-eared volume and flipped through it. I shook my head. "Not many are mine—most are Mr. Carter’s. You know, he has a PhD in medicine, used to be chief surgeon at Silver Hollow General Hospital. After his wife died, he became a professor at the university."

Her eyebrows rose, impressed. "Silver Hollow General’s ‘Dr. Carter the Miracle Worker.’" Andrea smiled. "He was the hospital’s star. People came from out of state for his surgeries. If his wife hadn’t died in a car accident at the hospital, he might still be there, not teaching."

It was all in the past.

Some days, I could almost hear the hospital intercom in my dreams. I walked into the study and looked at a photo of Mr. Carter on the desk.

He was smiling, surrounded by colleagues in white coats, a plaque for medical excellence in his hands. Andrea glanced at the photo too. "They say Professor Derek Carter Sr. was talented and handsome—the idol of many female students and teachers."

Her words carried a hint of teasing. "Mr. Carter really was handsome. A lot of people liked him at school back then," I said softly.

His gentle smile was still the same, even in pictures. Andrea looked into my eyes. "And you?"

My breath caught in my throat. I...

I looked up at her.

She held my gaze a moment longer, her eyes kind but probing. Andrea smiled, then quickly said, "I went too far. Almost forgot you’re his daughter-in-law. Sorry, don’t mind me. By the way, there are so many books on heart surgery in this study, it looks like someone lives here. Is there anyone else in your family?"

She gestured to a stack of medical journals. "No. Sometimes Derek reads here at night. He doesn’t want to disturb me, so he sleeps in the study," I replied.

The words sounded practiced, but true. As we spoke—

A sound came from Mr. Carter’s room.

I quickly walked over, looked at Mr. Carter in his wheelchair, and smiled. "Mr. Carter, we have a guest. Rest for a while, I’ll chat with you later."

I buttoned his cardigan, careful not to tug too hard on his stiff arms. He blinked slowly, a thank you in his eyes.

He blinked in acknowledgment, or maybe it was just the light. I closed his door, turned around, and found Andrea standing behind me.

Her presence was steady, grounded. "Detective Owens, you scared me." I patted my chest, glanced at the cup, and said, "Detective Owens, your water will get cold. Please drink it."

Andrea glanced at the cup, then took out her phone. "I won’t drink it. It’s almost eleven, something’s come up at the department. I have to go—next time."

Not drinking?

She tucked her phone away, already halfway out the door. I followed her to the door and asked, "Detective Owens, when will that case expert arrive in Silver Hollow?"

"Next week." Andrea replied, then slapped her forehead. "Almost forgot. I ran into Officer Sanders from the Northside Precinct a couple days ago. He asked me to tell you: if you have time, go visit your mother at Northside Correctional Facility."

The words hit me harder than I expected. "I know." I replied.

Andrea entered the elevator, looked at me again, and instructed, "If anything happens at home, call me anytime."

I nodded, hugging my arms around myself. "Thank you." I watched the elevator doors close, then returned to my place, feeling frustrated.

The walls felt closer than usual, pressing in. I pushed open Mr. Carter’s room door.

He looked at me with gentle eyes. "My mom wants me to visit her." I sat by Mr. Carter, angrily. "She killed my dad, killed Uncle Mark, and still wants me to visit? I’ll never see her again in this life."

My voice cracked as I spoke. As I did, tears streamed uncontrollably down my face.

I lay on Mr. Carter’s lap, crying. "Mr. Carter, Uncle Mark was such a good person, just like you—also a doctor, really wonderful. I miss him so much."

The memory of his laugh, his steady hands—those things haunted me. Mr. Carter couldn’t move his hand, so I placed it on my head, seeking comfort for my soul.

His fingers were cold, unmoving, but I pressed them to my hair anyway, pretending he could still protect me.

I wished for the warmth of his touch, the reassurance I used to find there. "Dad is gone. Uncle Mark is gone too. Mr. Carter, I won’t let you leave me as well," I whispered to him.

His eyes glistened with understanding. That night, Derek came home.

The apartment was still. In order to stop Derek from sending Mr. Carter to a nursing home, I tried to please him, making a table full of dishes and opening a bottle of red wine.

The clink of glasses felt forced, laughter catching in my throat. After drinking—

Derek was in high spirits and carried me into the bedroom.

His hands were rougher than usual, his smile too wide. On the bed, I leaned against his shoulder and said, "Honey, in a few days it’s Uncle Mark’s death anniversary. I want to visit him. Also, about Mr. Carter—I’ve thought about it. Actually, you don’t have to send him to a nursing home. We have another condo upstairs, right? Mr. Carter can live there, and we can hire a nurse..."

Maybe Derek was drunk. Before I finished, he slapped me across the face.

The taste of blood bloomed in my mouth, metallic and sharp. I bit my lip to keep from screaming.

"Uncle Mark... Mr. Carter..." Derek’s eyes were bloodshot as he glared at me, then slapped me several more times, screaming hysterically: "One is your father-in-law, one is your stepdad! Have you no shame? Do you have no shame! Don’t think I don’t know why your mother killed your stepdad! Did you have something going on with him too? Say it! Did you!"

My mind reeled. I stared at Derek in shock.

His grip was unyielding. He grabbed my neck, glared at me fiercely, and didn’t let go until I was nearly suffocating.

The room spun, my vision tunneling. "Don’t you talk about Uncle Mark..." I coughed, gasping. "Don’t you insult him."

Derek raised his hand, and just as I thought he’d hit me again, he slowly lowered it, got out of bed, and left the bedroom.

The apartment echoed with his absence. I dragged myself to the bathroom, stared at my reflection—red eyes, bruised skin, someone I barely recognized.

The slam of the door rattled the picture frames on the wall. I curled up on the bed, sobbing in pain, my throat burning as I coughed uncontrollably. Only after a long time did my breathing return to normal. Just as I wiped my tears with a tissue, I heard the sound of the front door closing in the living room.