He seized my shoulders and wrenched me toward him.
Riiip.
The black silk scarf tore clean off.
Crystal chandelier light poured down, illuminating my neck and collarbone.
Murray's gaze froze. His pupils contracted violently.
Below the pale line of my collarbone, the skin was covered in clusters of dark purple lumps, hard and raised. They were the ruined tissue left behind by thick dialysis needles driven into the same flesh over and over again.
Where my collar gaped open, a vicious scar stretched more than four inches across my chest. That was the mark of emergency open-heart surgery to resuscitate a failing heart.
Murray stopped breathing. The color drained from his face.
"What... is this..." His lips trembled, his voice splintering apart.
He remembered what the doctor had told him three months ago: "All her indicators are normal. She's faking it to avoid donating her kidney."
If she'd been faking, how could there be a scar from a surgery that pulled her back from death? How could there be needle marks horrifying enough to turn a person's stomach?
The ballroom doors slammed open.
A squad of fully armed officers strode in.