“Okay, Emily Carter,” she said, snapping on gloves. “Cold gel. Sorry in advance.”
I flinched when the gel hit my lower belly. My mom—Danielle Carter—sat in the corner chair, scrolling her phone, acting bored in that too-loud way she got when she wanted everyone to believe she had nothing to worry about.
Tara moved the probe in smooth loops, eyes flicking between me and the monitor. For a few seconds her face stayed neutral. Then something changed—like a switch inside her. Her smile faded mid-breath. She slowed down, pressed a little harder, then eased off and tried again from a different angle.
My stomach tightened. “Is… is it okay?” I asked.
“Just getting a clearer picture,” Tara said, but her voice had thinned. She wasn’t looking at me anymore. She was staring at the screen like it had started speaking a language she couldn’t ignore.
On the monitor, faint shadows gathered under the surface—dark blooms layered deep, uneven, too deliberate to be random. Seven of them. Not pretty purple bruises you saw on skin, but thick, buried bruising in shapes that felt uncomfortably familiar, like pressure marks. Like someone’s hand had stayed too long.
Mom’s phone stopped scrolling.
Danielle stood up so fast the chair legs squealed. “We’re done,” she said, already moving toward the table. “She fell—she slipped on the stairs two days ago. That’s all this is.”
Tara swallowed. Her gloved hand hesitated, then she passed the probe again, slower, careful, as if hoping the image would change out of mercy. It didn’t.
“That doesn’t match,” Tara murmured, almost to herself.
Mom’s face went pale under her foundation. Her eyes darted to me, then away, like I’d betrayed her by having a body that told the truth.
“I said she fell,” Danielle insisted, louder. “We don’t need this. She’s fine.”
Tara’s professionalism strained at the edges. “I’m going to get Dr. Hsu to take a look. It’s routine when we see—” She stopped, choosing words that wouldn’t explode. “—when we see findings that need confirmation.”
The door shut behind her with a soft click that sounded final.
In the silence, I heard my own breathing and the crinkle of paper beneath me. Mom reached for my wrist—too tight—smiling in a way that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Don’t start anything,” she whispered.
A minute later, the door opened again. Dr. Grace Hsu entered, calm and precise, and Tara followed like she’d been holding her breath the whole time. Dr. Hsu studied the screen, then rotated the monitor toward us so we couldn’t pretend we hadn’t seen it.
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t accuse. She simply asked, quietly, one question that made the room go perfectly still:
“Emily… who did this to you?”
The question hung in the air like smoke you couldn’t wave away. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. My mom’s grip on my wrist tightened until my fingers tingled.
“Dr. Hsu,” Danielle said quickly, bright and brittle, “this is ridiculous. She’s clumsy. She’s always been clumsy. Right, Em?”
I stared at the ceiling again because looking at my mom felt like stepping too close to a ledge.
Dr. Hsu didn’t argue. She simply watched me—steady eyes, patient like she’d waited through storms before. Tara stood near the door, hands folded, posture polite but ready, as if she understood something was about to break.
“Emily,” Dr. Hsu said, “I’m going to ask you a few questions. Your mom can stay, or she can step out. It’s your choice.”
Danielle laughed—one sharp note. “Why would I step out? I’m her mother.”
“I’d like to speak to Emily alone for a moment,” Dr. Hsu replied. Same tone, but firmer, like a line drawn on the floor.
Mom’s smile flickered. “No.”
Tara shifted. “Mrs. Carter, it’s standard. We do it all the time.”
Danielle’s eyes snapped to Tara. “Are you implying something?”
