“No,” she whispered.
The answer hurt.
It was also true.
“I should have listened to you. I should have checked the evidence. I should have answered one call.”
“You should have known me.”
I lowered my head.
“Yes.”
Her breathing became uneven.
The monitor quickened.
I stood, afraid I had already pushed too far.
“I’ll leave.”
Emma’s hand moved weakly over the blanket.
“Wait.”
I froze.
Her fingers opened.
I placed my hand beneath hers.
She did not hold me.
She simply let her hand rest there.
“Did you send the letter?” she asked.
“No.”
“The settlement?”
“No.”
“Did you tell them not to let me upstairs?”
“No.”
She searched my face.
For eight months, she had lived with a version of me constructed by someone else.
The terrible part was that she had found it believable.
“I thought…” Her voice broke. “I thought you hated her.”
“Her?”
“The baby.”
My chest tightened.
“I didn’t know.”
“I tried to tell you.”
“I know.”
“No.” Her eyes sharpened with sudden urgency. “You don’t understand. I tried to tell you before Brooke showed you those files.”
I stared at her.
“When?”
“The night before.”
A memory surfaced.
Emma had called me six times that night.
I had been in a meeting until midnight. Brooke had arrived before the final call and told me Emma was upset because she suspected I was hiding something.
The following morning, Brooke brought me the evidence.
“I never answered,” I said.
“You sent a message.”
“I didn’t.”
Emma’s hand trembled on mine.
“Yes, you did.”
“What did it say?”
Her lips parted, but no sound came at first.
Then she whispered, “‘Whatever you think you need to tell me, keep it to yourself. I already know what you are.’”
I felt the floor tilt beneath me.
“I never sent that.”
Emma stared at me.
For the first time, confusion replaced pain in her eyes.
“Then who had your phone?”
Brooke had.
She had taken it from the conference table when I stepped outside to speak with Marcus. She had returned it minutes later, saying someone had called twice and hung up.
I had forgotten.
Until now.
“I know who might have sent it,” I said.
Emma’s eyes closed again.
“Brooke?”
I did not answer.
I did not need to.
The monitor began to race. A nurse entered immediately.
“That’s enough for now.”
I released Emma’s hand.
As I stepped back, Emma whispered my name.
“Vincent.”
I leaned closer.
“Don’t confront her.”
“Why?”
Emma looked toward the open door, as though afraid someone might be listening.
“Because Brooke didn’t do this alone.”
The nurse moved between us.
“You need to leave.”
“Emma, who helped her?”
Her eyelids fluttered.
“Please,” the nurse said firmly.
I stepped into the hallway as another nurse entered.
Claire was waiting outside with Marcus.
“What did she say?” Marcus asked.
Before I could answer, an older man came around the corner.
He wore a charcoal overcoat and carried a polished wooden cane he did not truly need. His silver hair was combed neatly back from his face. Time had softened his features but not his eyes.
Anthony Moretti.
My uncle.
The man who had taught me never to enter a room without knowing every exit.
He stopped when he saw me.
For the briefest instant, surprise crossed his face.
Then it vanished beneath a warm, practiced smile.
“Vincent,” he said. “I came as soon as I heard.”
I had not told him.
Marcus had not told him.
No one outside the hospital knew Emma was here.
Anthony looked through the glass toward her room.
His expression changed.
Not grief.
Not concern.
Recognition.
Then his gaze shifted to Claire.
The color left her face.
“You,” she whispered.
Anthony’s smile disappeared.
Claire gripped the strap of her bag.
“That’s the man,” she said.
I looked from her to my uncle.
“What man?”
Her voice shook.
“The man who came to Harbor House yesterday asking for Emma’s notebook.”
Anthony’s fingers tightened around the handle of his cane.
Then Emma’s monitor began to alarm behind the glass.
And my uncle looked at me as if he had been waiting years for this moment.
END OF PART 2 – LIKE, SHARE AND COMMENT “”THE ENTIRE STORY”” IF YOU WANT TO READ THE FULL STORY.
