“They called me,” he said. “They want you to stop.”
“Tell them no,” I replied.
He stared at me like I was impossible. “You don’t understand,” he said. “They’ll come for Hannah. And they’ll come for you through me.”
I held up my phone. “Then remember—I have you admitting everything.”
That night he packed a suitcase and left without saying goodbye.
Now my calendar is filled with deposition dates.
Now Hannah sends messages late at night: “They pulled my badge logs. I’m scared.”
Tomorrow Renee says the hospital will file a motion to suppress the video.
If they succeed, the truth could disappear again—cleaned up and relabeled, as if Grace never mattered.
Daniel texted once: “Please stop before they destroy you.”
I stared at the message until the screen went dark.
Maybe they will destroy me.
Maybe I’ll lose the house. Maybe Hannah will lose her license. Maybe the court will decide Daniel’s signature matters more than my daughter’s red allergy band.
