Metal.
The taste that had lived on her tongue for weeks.
The tea.
The basil plant.
The way Caleb had watched her drink every night.
When she opened her eyes, Caleb was staring at the sealed mug as if it had betrayed him.
Detective Cole stepped closer.
“Mr. Ward, we’re going to continue this conversation at the station.”
Caleb straightened.
“You have no idea what she’s done to me.”
Rebecca’s head turned slowly.
Even dying, even exposed, even surrounded, he still reached for injury as a costume.
“What did I do, Caleb?” she whispered.
His eyes snapped to her.
“You made me wait.”
The words came out quiet.
Not shouted.
Not dramatic.
That made them worse.
“You sat on money you didn’t earn,” he said. “You kept me asking for permission in a life that should have been mine.”
Nora made a small sound in her throat.
Whitaker’s face hardened.
Rebecca did not cry. Her eyes stayed fixed on the man who had mistaken inheritance for love and patience for weakness.
Detective Cole reached for his wrist.
Caleb pulled back just enough to make the security officer step in.
His polished shoe squeaked against the hospital floor.
The sound was small and humiliating.
A $900 shoe sliding beside a sealed bag of poisoned tea.
“You’ll regret this,” Caleb said to Rebecca.
She looked at Dr. Harris.
“How long before I can be transferred?”
The doctor’s face softened without losing focus.
“We’re moving you to a monitored unit now. No visitors without clearance. Treatment starts tonight.”
Treatment.
Another word that felt almost too large to hold.
Attorney Whitaker came to the side of her bed and placed one paper where she could see it. At the bottom was her father’s signature.
Then hers.
