Sheriff Stevens doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have an answer. He just shakes his head. Two paramedics enter carrying a bag and a gurney, and they quickly begin helping Adam. I’m shooed away as they kneel on each side of him, asking him questions to verify whether or not he’s okay.

I take a couple of steps back, and Sheriff Stevens places his hand on my shoulder. “They’ll take care of him. Let’s get you cleaned up.” It’s more of a suggestion than a command.

I nod and follow him out as the paramedics place Adam on a gurney.

* * *

I’m sitting in Sheriff Steven’s office. He returns with a small first aid kit. He leans against his desk in front of me and wipes the dried blood away from the cut on my face. He’s told me more than once how sorry he is, and I think he truly means it. But I’m not sure whether he’s sorry for what Scott did or sorry for the situation that I’m in, or both.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but it’s a pretty good cut,” he says interrupting the silence that fills the room.

I don’t say anything. He continues inspecting my injury, but I think he’s just using this time to investigate me. His eyes keep locking with mine, but it’s me that looks away every time. I’m not sure what he’s trying to figure out. Maybe why I would be with a man like Adam? Maybe why I would stand by him after all that’s happened? He applies some Neosporin and then covers the wound up with a couple of butterfly bandages. He closes the first aid kit and then takes a long look at me. I can tell he wants to say something. I give him a look that I hope conveys that he can ask me whatever he wants. I need to know what he is thinking. I need to know what he is trying to figure out. I can’t read him, and it scares me. I can read everyone. But him—I can’t.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.” I press the bandages down ensuring they’re in place.

He walks to his side of the desk and takes a seat. He pauses, and for a second, I don’t think he’s going to ask me whatever it is he’s wondering. I take a small breath and try to relax. I shift a bit in my chair and cross one leg over the other. Sheriff Stevens taps his fingers on his desk, contemplating. He sits forward in his chair and leans on his hands. “Do you think he did it?”

“What kind of question is that?” I scrunch my face up in disgust.

“It’s just a question.” His eyes lock with mine.