I shook my head, a motion that immediately caused me to wince.

“I need a name,” Warren said impatiently.

I licked my dry lips, tried again. “She doesn’t have a father.”

“Impossible.”

“Not if you’re a slut and an alcoholic,” I said.

Cargill shot me a startled glance. The detectives, however, appeared intrigued.

“You’re an alcoholic?” Bobby Dodge asked evenly.

“Yes.”

“Who knows?”

“Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, some of the guys.” I shrugged, trying not to move my bruised cheek. “I sobered up seven years ago, before I joined the force. It hasn’t been an issue.”

“Seven years ago?” D.D. repeated. “When you were pregnant with your daughter?”

“That’s right.”

“How old were you when you got pregnant with Sophie?”

“Twenty-one. Young and stupid. I drank too much, partied too hard. Then one day, I was pregnant and it turned out the people I thought were my friends only hung out with me because I was part of the circus. Minute I left the show, I never saw any of them again.”

“Male associates?” D.D. asked.

“Won’t help you. I didn’t sleep with men I knew. I slept with men I didn’t know. Generally older men who were interested in buying a young stupid girl plenty of alcohol. I got drunk. They got laid. Then we each went our own way.”

“Tessa,” my lawyer began.

I held up a hand. “It’s old news, and nothing that matters. I don’t know Sophie’s dad. I couldn’t have worked it out if I tried, and I didn’t want to try. I got pregnant. Then I grew up, wised up, and sobered up. That’s what matters.”

“Sophie ever ask?” Bobby asked.

“No. She was three when I met Brian. She started calling him Daddy within a matter of weeks. I don’t think she remembers anymore that we ever lived without him.”

“When did he first hit you?” D.D. asked. “One month into the marriage? Six? Maybe a whole year?”

I didn’t say anything, just stared up at the ceiling. I had my right hand under the thin green hospital blanket, gripping the blue button a nurse had retrieved for me.

“We’re going to need to see your medical records,” D.D. stated. She was staring at my lawyer, challenging him.

“I fell down the stairs,” I said, my lips twisting into a funny smile, because it was actually the truth, but they, of course, would interpret it as the appropriate lie. Irony. God save me from irony.

“Excuse me?”

“The bruise on my ribs … Should’ve de-iced the outdoor steps. Oops.”

Detective Warren gave me an incredulous look. “Sure. You fell. What, three, four times?”

“I think it was only twice.”

She didn’t appreciate my sense of humor. “Ever report your husband for battery?” she pressed.