but the oxygen mask pressed against her face.
Dr.
Jonathan told her not to move.
“Your babies are alive,” he said.
“Both of them.
You are not alone.”
A tear slid toward her temple.
Rebecca had spent months teaching herself not to cry in front of Mark.
She had learned to hold her face still while he criticized her body, mocked her grief, and invited Claire into spaces that had once belonged to Rebecca’s parents.
But hearing that both children had survived broke through every wall she had built.
Her eyes closed again, not from surrender, but from exhaustion.
Dr.
Jonathan ordered the room cleared.
The officers escorted Mark, Agnes, and Claire into a private consultation room down the corridor.
Daniel followed, carrying the folder.
Mark demanded a lawyer before the door had fully closed.
“You are free to call one,” an officer said.
“At the moment, we are preserving evidence and taking statements.”
“I have done nothing,” Mark replied.
“My wife had a difficult pregnancy.
That is not a crime.”
Daniel placed three items on the table: the toxicology report, photographs of the capsules, and printed transcripts of recorded conversations.
Mark glanced at the first transcript and immediately looked away.
It contained the conversation Rebecca had overheard from the staircase.
Agnes’s words were printed in black ink: If she dies and there is a child, you become legal guardian of the heir.
Below them was Mark’s reply: Claire is tired of hiding.
Claire read the page twice.
“You recorded that?” she asked.
“Rebecca did,” Daniel said.
“Her security system captured audio from the lower hall.”
Mark leaned toward Claire.
“Do not let them divide us.”
She laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“Divide us? You told me Rebecca was refusing treatment.
You said her doctors expected complications no matter what happened.”
Agnes struck the table with her palm.
“You knew exactly what this was.
Do not pretend innocence now.”
Claire turned on her.
“I knew about the affair.
I knew Mark wanted access to the trust.
I did not know you were drugging her.”
“Liar,” Agnes said.
“Enough,” the officer ordered.
Mark pressed his hands together.
The charming confidence that had carried him through boardrooms, charity dinners, and family gatherings was beginning to fracture.
“There is no proof I touched those pills,” he said.
“The video shows my mother.
The laboratory shows a substance.
Neither proves I intended to harm Rebecca.”
Daniel opened the folder again.
“You are right.
That evidence alone may not prove your intent.”
Mark’s shoulders relaxed by a fraction.
Then Daniel placed a bank record on the table.
The payment had been made from a private account controlled by Mark to a clinic employee who had accessed Rebecca’s medical file without authorization.
Another payment went to a man who purchased the medication under a false name.
A third record showed a transfer to Claire labeled consulting expenses.
Claire stared at it.
“That was for the apartment.”
“What apartment?” the officer asked.
Mark shot her a warning look.
Claire ignored him.
“He rented a place across town.
He said we would move there after Rebecca died.”
The room became completely still.
Mark stood so quickly that his chair struck the wall.
“She is lying because she is frightened.”
“Sit down,” the officer said.
