“It wasn’t important.”
“It seems important now.”
“It was temporary. Contract work. I barely knew anyone.”
“Did you know Ethan?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
Too immediate.
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“You lost your business. We lost the house. Mom spent the last year of her life worrying about bills. And now the same family you once worked for suddenly offers to erase every debt if I marry their unconscious heir.”
My father turned.
“The offer came through an attorney.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
For several seconds, we looked at each other.
I loved my father. That was what made his lies so painful.
When I was a child, he had taught me to ride a bicycle by running beside me until he tripped over the curb. He had built blanket forts in the living room and burned pancakes every Sunday morning. After my mother became ill, he had slept in hospital chairs and learned the names of every medication she took.
But grief had changed him.
Or perhaps it had only revealed the parts of him I had refused to see.
“Go home,” I said.
His expression hardened.
“This is not your home.”
“No,” I replied. “But you made sure I couldn’t return to mine.”
He flinched.
I opened the door.
For one moment, I thought he might finally tell me the truth.
Instead, he stepped into the hallway.
“Be careful what you believe in this house.”
I almost laughed.
“Right now, I don’t believe anyone.”
After he left, I sat on the edge of the enormous bed and stared at my wedding ring.
It was simple compared with everything else at the estate. A narrow band of platinum with a small row of diamonds.
Beautiful.
Cold.
Permanent.
A soft sound came from across the hall.
I stood.
Ethan’s bedroom door was partially open.
The medical team had finished their tests an hour earlier, and the corridor had been quiet since then.
I crossed the hall.
A lamp glowed beside the bed.
Ethan lay in the same position, his face turned slightly toward the window.
The nurse sat near the door reading from a tablet.
She looked up.
“Mrs. Thornton.”
“How is he?”
“Stable.”
“Did the tests show anything?”
“The doctor will discuss the results with the family tomorrow.”
I almost pointed out that I was his family now.
The words felt too strange to say.
“Can I sit with him?”
The nurse hesitated.
“Of course.”
I took the chair beside the bed.
For nearly twenty minutes, I said nothing.
The nurse returned to her reading.
The river beyond the windows reflected the moonlight in broken silver lines.
Finally, I leaned closer.
“I know you’re awake.”
No movement.
“I saw you close your eyes when the nurse came in.”
His breathing remained even.
“You told me not to call anyone.”
Nothing.
I glanced toward the nurse. Her attention was on the tablet.
“If you’re pretending, you’re making this very difficult.”
Ethan’s little finger moved.
Once.
Relief and fear struck me at the same time.
I lowered my voice.
“Can you understand me?”
His finger moved again.
One tap.
“Yes?”
Another tap.
I swallowed.
