The first line on the paper said my father had murdered my mother—and that I had helped him hide the body.
I screamed so loudly that two nurses came running into the corridor.
Ben caught me before my knees hit the polished hospital floor. The sheet slipped from my fingers and drifted down between us, turning once in the air before landing faceup beneath the fluorescent lights.
For one terrible second, I could still see the words.
Claire, if you are reading this, I may be dead. Dad killed Mom, and without knowing it, you gave him the perfect alibi.
“No,” I gasped.
Ben held my shoulders. His face had gone beyond pale. It looked emptied of blood, carved from cold wax.
“Claire, listen to me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
I shoved him away so hard that his back struck the wall.
Behind the double doors at the end of the hall, my younger sister was fighting for her life. Surgeons were trying to deliver her premature twins while repairing damage caused by a placental abruption. Less than twenty minutes earlier, Ben had been sitting beside me with his elbows on his knees, whispering Rosie’s name as though repeating it could keep her alive.
Then he had dragged me into this corridor and told me the truth about their marriage was “much worse” than anything I feared.
I had imagined greed.
Inheritance.
Pity.
Even the possibility that he had married Rosie because he had once loved me and wanted to remain near me.
I had not imagined murder.
One of the nurses bent to retrieve the paper.
