I pressed both fists against my mouth to keep from screaming. I wanted to run down the hall and destroy him. But I needed proof. Physical proof. A witness.
At 3:15 a.m., a message hit Ryan’s burner phone, which I had managed to intercept.
Patient in Room 412 is stabilizing rapidly. Sedation is lifting. Neuro says she might regain full memory of the crash by morning.
Room 412 at Riverside Medical Center.
Sophie.
Our twenty-year-old babysitter. She had been driving the van. She had survived the fall into the ravine with a fractured spine and memory loss.
If she remembered what happened, Ryan’s alibi would collapse.
Footsteps sounded outside my closet. I slammed the laptop shut, hid it under sweaters, and rushed back into bed.
Ryan entered my room dressed in black, a hoodie over his head. He stared at my supposedly drugged body, then pulled blue surgical gloves from his pocket and walked toward the garage.
He was going to the hospital to finish what he started.
