Page 91 of Ghosts Don't Cry
I hesitate. “It wasn’t his fault.”
He studies me for a long moment, taking in my defensive posture, and the way I’m holding my face. “We’re going to need statements from everyone.”
Dan glares at me, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why the fuck are you defending that asshole?”
Mark snorts. “Do you really think anyone is going to believe you over half the people here? I saw you go for him, Dan. He was staying out of reach until you threw a punch. You just didn’t expect Lily to get in the way of it.”
“For fuck’s sake, you know he fucking deserved it.”
“We can go downtown and take your statement there, if you’d prefer?” Gardner’s tone is flat.
Dan presses his lips together, wincing at the pain, but doesn’t answer.
I focus on breathing while the two police officers move through the crowd, talking to everyone. My head throbs in time with each heartbeat. The adrenaline is starting to fade, and with it comes a wave of nausea so strong, I have to close my eyes. Cold sweat breaks out across my forehead. The shaking gets worse.
I don’t even notice I’m swaying until someone grips my elbow, steadying me.
“You need to sit down.”
I nod, but my legs won’t move. The scene wavers in and out—flashing lights, raised voices, rain falling steadily. Everything feels distant, muffled, wrapped in cotton.
Someone presses a bottle of water into my hand. I unscrew the cap with shaking fingers, but when I lift it to my mouth, the pressure against my lips makes me gasp. The water turns pink with blood.
“You need to get checked out. Someone called an ambulance.”
“I’m fine.” The lie is obvious, even to me.
Gardner comes over, notepad in hand. “Lily? I need to get your statement.”
I try to focus on his face, but my vision keeps blurring. “Dan … Dan swung at Ronan. I got in the way.”
“Did Ronan Oliver hit you?”
“No!” The word comes out fierce despite the pain. “Dan did. Ronan was defending me.”
He writes something down. “Do you know where Oliver went?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know where he’s staying?”
I hesitate. “Cedar Street.”
More questions follow, but they blur together. My answers come automatically. Yes, Dan threw the first punch. No, Ronan didn’t start it. Yes, I’m sure.
When his radio crackles and he steps away to respond, I sway, the world tilting dangerously.
Two ambulances pull into the lot, lights flashing but no sirens. A medic approaches me, kit in hand, and guides me down to sit on the steps, so she can crouch in front of me.
“Let me look at your face.” Her voice is gentle. “I need to check if you’re going to need stitches.”
She tilts my chin up with gloved fingers, examining my nose and lip. Each touch sends fresh pain lancing through my skull. I taste blood with every breath.
“Your nose isn’t broken, but you’re going to have some significant swelling and bruises. Your lip …” She probes gently, and I flinch. “It’s split pretty deep. You might need stitches. Any dizziness? Nausea? Blurred vision?”
“Yes. All of that.”
She shines a light in my eyes, watching my pupils. “You need to go to the hospital. Possible concussion, and that lip needs proper care.”
