THE GIRL IN THE CLOSET (Eva Rae Thomas FBI Mystery Book 18) by WILLOW ROSE

Author:WILLOW ROSE [ROSE, WILLOW]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BUOY MEDIA
Published: 2025-07-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

The doctor arrived twenty minutes later—a gray-haired man with weathered skin and quick eyes that missed nothing. His casual Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts couldn't hide the military precision in his movements. I recognized the type—retired military turned civilian, the kind who maintained operational security even when diagnosing the common cold. Perfect for our current situation.

"She's in the guest room," I said, leading him down the hallway. "She's reluctant to be examined."

Mike nodded. "Matt briefed me. No hospitals, no questions, no records."

"Exactly."

When we reached the guest room, Crystal was sitting rigidly on the edge of the bed. Elijah stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the night sky. He straightened as we entered, protective energy radiating from his thin frame.

"Mrs. Miller, I'm Dr. Steiner, but you can call me Mike," the doctor said, his voice softening. "I’m a friend of Matt’s. I'd like to take a look at your injuries, if that's all right."

Crystal's hands clutched the bedspread. "Just you?" Her eyes darted between the doctor and me.

"I'll step out," I offered.

"No." The word came fast, urgent. "You stay." Her gaze locked onto mine, surprisingly lucid. "Not him." She jerked her chin toward Elijah.

The boy's face fell. "Gran⁠—"

"Please, Elijah." Her voice softened. "Just Eva Rae."

Something passed between them—an understanding I couldn't decipher. Elijah nodded slowly, slipping past us into the hallway. The door closed with a soft click.

Dr. Steiner opened his medical bag with practiced efficiency. "I'll need to examine you thoroughly, Mrs. Miller."

Crystal nodded once, her lips pressed into a bloodless line.

I positioned myself at the head of the bed, close enough to offer support but far enough to give the doctor room. He worked methodically, his face giving nothing away as he cataloged each injury. I did the same, my trained eyes tracking every mark.

Contusions on her wrists and ankles. Dehydration was evident in the skin's poor elasticity. The cut above her eyebrow needed butterfly bandages, not stitches. Defensive wounds on her forearms and hands. When she finally allowed her torso to be examined, I caught my breath at the bruising across her ribs—precise, targeted, administered by someone who knew exactly how much pressure to apply for maximum pain without breaking bones.

These weren't random injuries. They were calculated and meant to keep her alive long enough to feel the pain.

Crystal endured the examination in silence, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Only when the doctor gently probed her ribs did she make a sound—a sharp intake of breath, quickly suppressed.

"Two bruised ribs," Dr. Steiner concluded. "No fractures that I can detect without X-rays." He continued his examination, his expression growing grimmer by the minute. When he finished, he repacked his bag with the same precision. "I'll leave you some pain medication and antibiotics for the cuts. Nothing appears life-threatening, but she needs rest and fluids."

Crystal pulled her shirt down, tugging it over the bruises as if hiding them would erase their existence. Her hands shook less now, I noticed. The initial shock was wearing off, replaced by something harder to read.

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