I reached out and grabbed his left forearm, pulling his sleeve up before he could jerk away.

The skin above his wrist was still mottled with the yellow and purple bruise he got last week.

“You tripped over that rusted toolbox in the basement,” I whispered, my thumb brushing the edge of the mark.

“Let go of me,” he said, pulling his arm back with a scowl.

“I remember it clearly,” I said, ignoring his glare. “But that is not what the police will hear.”

Carl stopped moving.

The radiator beside him gave a loud, metallic clonk, but he didn’t look at it.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The police in this precinct know me,” I said. “They know I am a woman living with a man who has a temper.”

“I have never raised a hand to you,” Carl said, his voice rising slightly.

“They won’t ask you that first,” I said. “They will look at this bruise. And then they will look at me.”

I raised my right hand and gripped my own left wrist, squeezing with all the strength I had.