“If people start asking questions, the project on Northern Avenue goes under,” he said. “We cannot afford a scene.”
The hospital signs appeared, red and white against the gray morning sky.
Daniel turned into the emergency bay, parking the car in the lane marked for unloading.
He turned the engine off, and the sudden quiet in the car felt heavy.
“You slipped,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, gentle register he used with clients. “You were carrying a basket of laundry, and you didn’t see the toy.”
He reached across the console and took my hand.
His fingers tightened around my wrist like a band of cold iron as the sliding glass doors of the emergency room parted.
