“That’s from twisting,” Dr. Nair said quietly. “Hard twisting. Against something solid.”
“A vinyl booth,” I said. “At the Magnolia Diner.”
She wrote that down too.
I returned to Lorraine’s Old Mill Road home near ten that night.
Lorraine sat in a rented hospital bed in her living room, walker nearby and television murmuring. Seeing my splinted wrist, she immediately turned off the news.
“Amara Jean Whitlock,” she said. “What in God’s name happened to you?”
I sat down on the edge of her bed and told her everything.
She
