“I am staying,” I promised, attention flicking to her hand I was still holding. “Right here.” Turning it over, I stared in horror at the deep welts on her wrist. “Brian didn’t do that to your wrist, did he, Liz?” Nothing. “Liz,” I said, a little sterner now, attention still riveted to her wrist. Beneath the fresh cuts were older scars. Deep scars. Ones I’d never noticed before because she always wore dozens of bracelets. “Where did these scars come from?” “Don’t go,” was all she replied, and it was a barely coherent mumbled slur. “He gets me when you’re not here.”
