“You fell, okay? This was an accident. You need help, Cora, but I really, genuinely believe that involuntary commitment is the worst thing that could happen to you right now. If the press finds out . . .” He almost laughed. If the press finds out, as if I’m not the press. “The press can’t find out. I’m not going to let them take you away, but I’m not about to take the blame for this, either.”

And so, in the eight minutes it took him to drive her to the hospital, they concocted a slapdash, barely credible story. Yes, despite having no drugs or alcohol in her system, she fell down a flight of stairs at 3:45 in the morning and landed on a very sharp edge of a glass coffee table. And if they asked why she was so shaken, it was because she had a chronic fear of blood. They arrived just after 4:00 but, owing to the non-life-threatening nature of her injury, had to wait almost an hour before they began stitching her up.

He worried that if they pushed her too hard, if they insisted that it was Kaveh that did this to her, that she might let him take the fall out of desperation to stay out of a mental institution. This fear was compounded when, after another hour, the police showed up to question him. Two upstanding white Orange County policemen, one fratty blond who was no older than thirty, and a slightly smaller redhead.

“Are you the boyfriend?” asked the redhead, whose badge read “Turner.”

The boyfriend. Not her boyfriend. The boyfriend. “Yes, that’s me.”

“She’s given her statement,” said the blond, whose badge read “banning” and whom Kaveh had already clocked as ex-military. “But you understand that we need to question you, as well.”

“I understand, Officer.”

“The doctors tell us that the gash wasn’t the only injury,” said Lanning. “That there is bruising on her, too. On her head, but also on her fists and legs.”

“It was a bad fall.”

“But on her fists?” said Turner. “And the doctors tell me that these bruises are definitely more than a few hours old.”

Kaveh took in a long breath before he repeated, “It was a bad fall.”

Turner eyed him. “I know in your culture . . .” Hearing this word, the way he said it, culture, like it was a bad infestation of termites, Kaveh’s vision dropped out, replaced with white-hot rage. “Women are treated differently. We understand that. So I’m going to ask you one more time: Did you have anything to do with the injuries on her body?”