All that time, my parents had been spending the money Jason had already left for us.
“What was on the sealed page?” I asked.
Eleanor’s expression changed.
“A report from the private investigator Jason hired before he died.”
The room seemed to grow quieter.
Jason’s death had been ruled an accident.
His car had struck a concrete barrier during heavy rain.
Police found no mechanical failure, no alcohol, and no evidence that another vehicle had made contact.
My parents had insisted grief was making me irrational whenever I questioned the circumstances.
My father said Jason had been distracted and probably driving too fast.
My mother told me to stop searching for someone to blame.
Eleanor placed a photograph on the blanket.
It showed Jason in a parking lot with my father.
The date in the corner was six days before the crash.
My father was holding a document.
Jason was pointing at him.
“Jason discovered your father had used your personal information to guarantee a business loan,” Eleanor said.
“He confronted him and demanded that every fraudulent account be closed.”
“Did my father kill him?”
“We do not know.
The report does not prove that.”
Her honesty steadied me more than reassurance would have.
“But it proves your father lied to police.
He said he had not seen Jason for nearly a month before the accident.
We also found messages showing that your father asked Jason to meet him on the night he died.”
My heart began pounding against the monitor leads.
“Where?”
“At a warehouse owned by one of your father’s former clients.
It was less than two miles from the crash site.”
A nurse came in and reminded me that stress could interfere with my recovery.
Eleanor put the documents away.
For the next three hours, I heard nothing about my parents.
Every minute belonged to Lily.
A neonatal nurse brought me a photograph from the operating room.
My daughter looked impossibly small beneath the tubes and sensors.
One tiny fist rested beside her face.
I pressed the photograph to my lips.
Just after midnight, the surgeon returned.
The repair had gone well.
Lily would remain in intensive care, and the next forty-eight hours would be critical, but her heart was beating with improved circulation.
For the first time since my water broke, I could breathe without feeling as if the room were collapsing.
Eleanor cried then.
She turned toward the window, but I saw her shoulders shake.
I reached for her hand.
“Jason would have called her stubborn,” I said.
She laughed through her tears.
“He would have been proud of that.”
The police arrived the following morning.
A detective interviewed me from my hospital bed while an officer photographed the bruise across my abdomen.
The fetal monitor data, security footage, and statements from the nurses established what had happened.
My mother claimed she had merely reached toward me and that I had twisted away dramatically.
She said the medical crisis was caused by stress, not impact.
Then investigators reviewed the footage from Room 418.
The camera had captured her raising her fist.
It had captured the blow.
