Inside the room came a terrified cry.
“No!”
Every head turned.
Mia had launched herself backward against the bed’s metal headboard, eyes huge, hand fisted in Goliath’s collar.
Claire went white.
“Mia, baby—”
“No!”
The second one cracked like glass.
Buster started yelping.
Goliath surged to his feet in one smooth, terrible motion.
He did not lunge.
He did not snap.
He simply stood between the bed and the door, body loose but ready, a low warning rolling out of his chest like distant thunder.
Claire recoiled as if struck.
And there, in that single involuntary step backward, was the truth she could not control.
She was not afraid of a dangerous dog.
She was afraid of being recognized by one.
Avery looked at Dana.
Dana looked at Claire.
Then Avery said, “I think it would be best if we continue this conversation somewhere else.”
Claire’s eyes filled.
“I am her mother.”
Mia’s voice came from behind Goliath.
Small.
Shaking.
Clear.
“You didn’t come when I knocked on your door.”
That one tore the room open.
Claire stared at her daughter.
For a second the polished wife disappeared, and all that stood in the hospital hall was a woman faced with the exact cost of every time she had chosen calm over courage.
“I was trying to keep the peace,” Claire whispered.
Mia’s answer came immediately.
“I was trying to keep Buster alive.”
No one had anything to say after that.
Because nothing useful could follow it.
