She had been sixteen, thin and pale, folded into herself on a metal chair near the storage shelves. One hand clutched her chest. The other was wrapped in a blood-soaked dish towel.
“She tried to open a can with a screwdriver,” someone had whispered. “It slipped.”
I knelt in front of her. “Hi. I’m Harper. Can I take a look?”
She did not speak, but she nodded. When I unwrapped the towel, I saw the cut. It was deep and angry, slicing across her palm.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I asked.
“Aria,” she whispered.
Her skin was cold. Her eyes were wary in a way that did not belong on a teenager.
I bundled napkins around her hand and grabbed my purse. “We’re going to the emergency room. This needs stitches.”
That night, Aria barely said a word. She listed me as her emergency contact because there was no one else. No parents answered the calls. No relative came to claim her.
I filled out paperwork and called Julian.
