Chapter 9 - What the Statement Could Not Say
The police officer who interviewed me that afternoon didn't promise an arrest. He asked where Sloan had stood, where my hand had been on the railing, who might have seen the contact, and whether I could distinguish what I'd felt from what the video showed.
I answered as precisely as I would have described damage to a ship's hull.
“Her heel caught my left ankle. Her shoulder contacted my upper back. After that, I lost my footing. I did not see her face until I was on the floor.”
He asked about the card separately. I provided the charge notice, the receipt, and my employer's contact information. He explained that the financial allegation and the physical injury might be investigated by different people.
Outside the station, Greer waited with my crutches in the car. I was too exhausted to be angry.
“Did I sound cold?” I asked.
“You sounded accurate.”
My phone filled with family messages while she drove. An aunt said the canceled wedding had broken Blythe's heart. A cousin told me that anyone could slip on polished marble. Bellamy posted a photograph of Sloan crying into a bouquet with the caption, Some people can't stand to see a bride happy.
I stared at it until Greer took the phone from my hand.
“You don't have to correct everybody before lunch.”
That night, alone in my own house, I reached the kitchen and realized I couldn't carry a glass of water while using crutches. I stood there leaning against the counter, humiliated by a problem smaller than a staircase.
Then I called Greer.
“I need help,” I said.
May you like
“I know. I'll come over.”
I had spent my adult life believing independence meant never needing anyone. It turned out asking for help was the first honest thing I'd done in days.
