She moved gingerly. Any movement of her left arm and shoulder still led to instantaneous shooting pains, so during the past few weeks, she’d perfected the art of rolling onto her right side. From there, she could swing her feet down to the floor, which helped heave her torso into the vertical position. Having achieved sitting up, she would then spend the next couple of minutes regaining her labored breath.

Because what happened next really, truly hurt, and heaven help her, but six weeks later she was growing more averse to the pain, instead of simply resigned to it.

Strained muscles. Inflamed tendons. Overstretched nerves. And the winning injury, an avulsion fracture. The ripping away of a piece of bone in her left humerus. In a matter of seconds, D.D. had sustained enough damage to her forty-four-year-old body that she now moved like the Tin Man, unable to turn her head, lift her left arm or rotate her torso. No surgical options, she’d been told. Just time, fortitude and physical therapy. Which she did. Twice-weekly appointments followed by daily homework assignments that made her scream in agony.

Because forget ever holding a gun again. Right now, D.D. couldn’t even pick up her own child.

Deep breath. Counting to three. Then she stood. The movement was abrupt, nearly impossible to perfectly balance. Meaning she instinctively countered with a shoulder shrug here and a neck rotation there, as her teeth gritted and her right hand clenched and she used the worst, most vile words she could think of, which after twenty years as a Boston cop included curses that would make a long-haul trucker with a kidney stone blush, and even then, she nearly vomited from the pain.

But she was standing. Sweating. Swaying slightly. But fully vertical.

And she thought, not for the first time, what the hell had she been doing at that crime scene at that hour of the night? Because six weeks later, she still couldn’t remember a thing. She’d suffered the worst injury of her life, put her career in jeopardy and her family in crisis and she still didn’t have a clue.

One day, six weeks ago, she’d shown up for work. And life had been a mystery ever since.

Another thirty minutes while she managed to brush her teeth, comb her hair. Showering required Alex’s help. He’d been gracious about it. Saying he’d do anything as long as she was naked. But his deep blue eyes maintained a watchful look. As if she were suddenly spun from glass and needed to be handled delicately at all times.

The first day home, she’d caught him staring at the dark bruises welting her back, and the look on his face . . .

Stricken. Horrified. Appalled.