My heart thundered in my chest. Jason’s hand rested on my knee—light, deliberate.
“Tell him,” he murmured. “You slipped.”
I stared at the ceiling. For years, fear had made my decisions for me—fear of what would happen if I spoke, fear of what would happen if I didn’t. But something shifted. Maybe it was the IV in my arm. Maybe it was the certainty in the doctor’s voice.
“I didn’t fall,” I said.
Jason’s grip tightened painfully. “Emily—”
“I didn’t fall,” I said again, louder this time. “He did this.”
Everything erupted at once. Dr. Harris stepped back and signaled the nurse. Security was called. Jason jumped to his feet, his chair scraping the floor.
“She’s confused!” he shouted. “She has anxiety—”
The nurse glanced at my wrists, at the fingerprints still visible. Her expression hardened.
Police arrived within minutes. Jason tried to explain, to joke, to charm his way out. It failed. When they asked if I wanted to file a report, my voice trembled—but it didn’t disappear.
