The shelter’s head of security, ex-marine, and all around badass, Evan Morgan, crossed his arms over his wide chest. The thin cotton of his shirt strained against the broad muscles. “What happened?” I looked up, my eyes meeting his. “I don’t know much except that it was her husband who did it.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but I already knew what he would ask. “Wrist, collarbone, and arm are all broken. She also has visible lacerations on her face.”
