“This is ridiculous!”
My father replied with one sentence.
“I already called them.”
Three minutes later, flashing red and blue lights filled the windows of the mansion.
Guests stood nervously, grabbing coats and whispering.
The front door burst open as paramedics rushed inside.
“Where’s the patient?”
Daniel pointed toward the kitchen, his hands shaking.
The paramedics knelt beside me.
“It’s okay,” one said gently. “We’re taking you to the hospital.”
As they lifted me onto a stretcher, police officers entered the house.
“Who is Daniel Parker?” one asked.
Daniel tried to regain his confidence.
“That would be me.”
The officer studied the scene — the blood on the floor, the broken phone, the terrified faces.
“We received a report of domestic assault.”
Daniel laughed nervously.
“My wife slipped.”
One of the paramedics looked up.
“Officer, she has visible trauma.”
The officer nodded slowly.
“Mr. Parker, you may want to stop talking until you speak with an attorney.”
The irony hung heavily in the air.
Because Daniel was the attorney.
As the ambulance doors closed, I finally allowed my eyes to shut.
When I woke up later, the smell of antiseptic filled the hospital room.
A heart monitor beeped steadily beside me.