“Hi,” she said.

“I’d like you to go to St. David’s and get that wrist checked out.”

“I’m fine.”

She wasn’t, but a crowded ER was the last place she wanted to be right now.

Brandon’s jaw tightened. They’d had this conversation earlier after she’d relayed what had happened and he’d observed the red welts on her arm.

“I’ll put ice on it when I get home,” she said.

“Leigh—”

“Drop it, okay? I said I’m not going.”

A uniform walked over, halting awkwardly as he caught the snippet of conversation. He glanced from Brandon to Leigh.

“Ma’am? Sorry to interrupt.” The officer looked young, and clearly he was nervous. “I had another question about your assailant.”

Leigh cleared her throat. “Sure.”

“You recall his shoes?”

“Shoes?”

“Was he wearing athletic shoes? Boots? Business-type shoes, maybe?”

“I don’t know.” She tried to picture his feet, but the image she kept getting was those bulging gray eyes glaring out from the ski mask.

“What’d they find?” Brandon asked gruffly.

“We’ve got some shoe impressions in the flower bed next door. Could be nothing, but—”

“Have the CSI take photographs.”

“He did.”

“Sorry,” Leigh told the officer. “I don’t remember his shoes. I don’t remember his clothes at all except the black mask, like I told you. And his eyes. Wait! One more thing. I remember onions.”

The officer’s eyebrows tipped up. “Onions?”

She looked at Brandon. “He had me pinned under him.” Leigh’s stomach clenched at the memory. “His breath smelled like onions.”

The officer scribbled in his notebook. “Okay. Anything else?”

“That’s it.” She looked at Brandon. “Random detail, I know.”

“No, it’s good. Any detail helps.”

The officer flipped his notebook shut and looked at Brandon, as if awaiting instructions.

“Tape off the flower bed,” Brandon told him. “I’ll be over in a minute.”

The officer nodded and walked off, and Brandon turned to Leigh.

“I don’t know why I remember onions, but I have no idea about his clothes or his hair or anything remotely useful.”

“You gave us his size.”

“Yeah, big. That’s not much to go on.”

“It’s a start. And you remembered the gloves.”

As the first responder interviewed her, she’d recalled the smell of latex as the hand clamped over her mouth. He’d been wearing gloves—yet another sign that the break-in was carefully planned.

Javi appeared in the open doorway. He wore a black silk shirt and slacks, and his hair had the moussed-up look that told her he’d been out at a bar when she called him.

“Shit, Leigh.” He came straight over and knelt in front of her, resting his hand on her sore knee. “Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

Leigh had told him the basics over the phone, but she had a few updates.