Everett's grip tightened on the desk. "She never called me."
"The hospital did," Silas said. "Three times."
Silence.
Everett's expression changed. "I never got those calls."
"I know," Silas said.
"What do you mean, you know?"
"Every call to your office that week was redirected." "Someone changed your forwarding settings the same night."
Everett stared at the wall.
A few minutes later, Silas sent the hospital file. Naomi's name sat at the top. Everett's appeared underneath, marked Emergency Contact. Beneath that, one word stared back at him.
Husband.
He read that single word four or five times before it truly landed. Not skimmed, not glanced at. Read, slowly, like it might change if he looked away and back again. It didn't change. It just sat there, plain and undeniable, undoing an entire year in one line of type.
But that wasn't the worst part.
Silas had found proof someone tried to erase the file afterward. Someone with administrative access tied to Everett's own accounts.
