On the porch steps is a young woman, early- to mid-twenties, maybe, hunched in on herself and staunchly ignoring the police officer trying, presumably, to take her statement.

But Rowan has authority here.

“Paramedics! Clear the way,” he calls.

The cops begrudgingly make way for them and hover a few feet away as Rowan kneels at the woman’s side. She’s thin and pale, her long, straight black hair splayed across her shoulders and casting a dark curtain over her face.

Rowan does a quick external exam of what he can see, noting that she’s cradling her arm in her lap.

“Hi, I’m Rowan. Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”

She shakily holds her right arm out. “Just my arm.”

Rowan quickly pulls a pair of gloves on, asking, “No head or back injuries?”

“No. Aside from….” She gestures to her left eye.

For the first time, she looks up, and Rowan is struck by her eyes. Teary, rimmed red, mascara starting to run down her cheeks, a bruise already starting to form around her left eye socket.

But shockingly golden. Bright and piercing even brimmed with tears.

Fuck, she looks exactly like Mal. Her coloration, slim build, facial structure… down to her cheekbones and the curve of her jaw. And of course those gold fucking eyes. So similar to the ones that Rowan had made cry a few weeks ago for an entirely different reason that it nearly makes him forget himself.

“Can I…?”

She nods, brushing back the bangs covering her forehead.

Rowan gently prods around her temple and eyebrow with his thumb, careful not to hurt the already swollen area.

“This’ll be a nasty black eye in a couple days, but there’s no external bleeding or broken bones, so there’s not much I can do about it at the moment. Can I see your arm?”

Once she extends it, Rowan slowly turns her palm face up.

But he pauses, seeing the small tattoo inked inside her wrist. Two curving snakes, one larger and curled around the smaller of the two. Similar to what Mal has on his calf.

It can’t be… can it?

Mal hasn’t said anything about any siblings, and Rowan hasn’t asked, still too worried of overstepping. But as he thinks about it, he remembers something he’d said at the diner after one of their first sessions when Rowan mentioned being one of six kids: I thought Savaryns bred like cockroaches.

Rowan can’t help but wonder if she’s a sister or a cousin of Mal’s.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Amy.”

She doesn’t offer a last name, and Rowan doesn’t pry, despite that he’s itching to.

“Do you want to tell me what happened to your arm?”

As she talks, Rowan lightly prods her arm with his fingertips, feeling the bones of her forearm and wrist, mentally cataloging each as he feels it.