My Stepbrother Struck Me In The Clinic, Unaware The Horrified Police Had Just Arrived

Dr. Rhodes came in with my chart and paused when she saw me standing beside the window instead of sitting on the table.

“No rush,” she said.

I laughed quietly. “You always say exactly the right thing.”

“No,” she replied. “I just try not to say the wrong one.”

The appointment was ordinary. That was its own victory. Blood pressure. Questions. Follow-up. No emergency. No police. No one screaming outside the door.

When I left, I paused in the lobby.

A young woman sat near the entrance wearing sunglasses indoors, her foot tapping too quickly. A man beside her scrolled on his phone, his knee angled toward her like a barrier. I did not know her story. I did not create one in my head. But when her eyes flicked toward mine, I held her gaze for one second longer than strangers usually do.

Not pity.

Recognition.

Outside, the air was cold and bright. I walked to my car, unlocked it, and sat behind the wheel with both hands resting on nothing.

For a moment, I allowed myself to remember the sound of handcuffs locking around Derek’s wrists.

Then I started the engine and drove away.

Not because the past was gone.

Because I could.