Part 2: “Tomorrow”
A nurse adjusted my IV while another physician came in to examine the discoloration around my ankle. They marked the edges of the affected area so they could tell whether the damage was spreading.
For the first time in a week, people were watching my condition instead of telling me to wait until tomorrow.
Detective Hall stepped into the hallway to speak with the officers downstairs.
A few minutes later, she returned.
“Luca is still demanding to see you,” she said.
My stomach dropped.
“What is he saying?”
“That you’re confused because of the fever. That he was taking care of you. That you left without telling him and he was worried.”
I almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because I had spent seven days listening to exactly that version of my own reality.
I was confused.
I was overreacting.
I was making the wound worse by touching it.
I needed to wait.
I looked down at my swollen ankle.
“Can he come here?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
Detective Hall showed me another photograph from the security recording.
“Before we do anything else, I want you to tell me whether this cabinet is normally locked.”
I studied the image.
It was the metal cabinet in the garage that Luca had always called his cleaning cabinet. I had never paid attention to what was inside it.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He keeps the garage organized. I never go through his things.”
“That’s okay.”
She didn’t pressure me.
“Do you know why he might have had a bottle of industrial cleaner in there?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see him use it around the house?”
“No.”
“Did he ever tell you to stay away from the cabinet?”
I thought about it.
“Once. A long time ago. He said some of the chemicals were dangerous.”
Detective Hall wrote that down.
Then she asked the question that hurt more than all the others.
“When did he first tell you the scrape was getting worse?”
“The second day.”
“And when did he first change the dressing himself?”
“That same night.”
The detective looked at me.
“Did he ever encourage you to see a doctor?”
I shook my head.
“He kept saying tomorrow.”
She nodded once.
“And every time you wanted to look at the wound?”
“He told me not to touch the tape.”
The room went very quiet.
Suddenly I understood why the words in his text had frightened everyone so much.
Don’t tell them about what I put on your leg.
It wasn’t only that he had known what he’d put there.
It was that I had never told him the doctor was asking.
