“How bad is it?” I asked.
He placed the images on a light board. I stared. Fractures ran across her jaw like cracks spreading through shattered glass.
“Six separate breaks,” he said quietly.
I couldn’t look away. “Six?”
The doctor nodded. “One near the hinge. Multiple fractures along the lower jaw. Significant trauma.” His voice grew lower. “Whoever did this struck her with extreme force.”
I understood what he wasn’t saying. This wasn’t an accident. Someone wanted to hurt her. Badly.
“Will she recover?”
“We believe so,” he said carefully. “But she’ll need multiple surgeries.”
I swallowed hard, then asked the question that mattered most. “Who did this?”
The doctor sighed. “We don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Campus security found her unconscious near the science building.”
I stared at him. “A university campus full of students?”
“Yes.”
“Security cameras?”
“We’re reviewing footage.”
“Witnesses?”
His silence answered for him.
I stood slowly. “You’re telling me my daughter was attacked near a crowded campus and nobody saw anything?”
The doctor looked away.
For the first time that night, something felt wrong. Very wrong. Because campuses have students, students have phones, and attacks like this don’t simply happen without someone knowing the truth.
As I looked at Lily lying helpless in that hospital bed, one question consumed me: Who was trying so hard to make sure nobody ever found out what really happened that night?
Part 2
The first person who came to see Lily was not a police officer. It was the dean of students.
He arrived at 2:16 a.m., wearing a raincoat over pajamas and the nervous smile of a man trying to protect an institution before a victim.
“Mr. Mercer,” he said softly, “we are deeply concerned.”
I looked at my daughter’s swollen face. “Concerned enough to call the police?”
His smile faded. “Campus security has opened an internal review.”
“Internal?” The word tasted like metal. “My daughter’s jaw is broken in six places.”
He lowered his voice. “We don’t want rumors spreading before we understand the full situation.”
That was when I knew. They already understood more than they were admitting.
I stepped into the hallway with him. “Show me the footage.”
He blinked. “That won’t be possible tonight.”
I leaned closer. “Then call whoever can make it possible.”
Before he could answer, a nurse approached with Lily’s phone sealed in a plastic bag.
“It was found under a stairwell,” she said. “The police need it, but it kept buzzing.”
I took one look at the cracked screen. Thirty-seven missed calls—all from the same blocked number.
