I told him about the service grate.
The emergency release.
The alarm.
Our neighbor, Mrs. Dalton.
She had heard it.
She called 911.
Nathan tried to tell officers I had fallen.
But I was conscious enough to say:
“He’s lying.”
That sentence probably saved me.
Detective Mercer stood.
“We’ll need the original recorder.”
Rebecca answered.
“You can have a forensic copy through proper evidence procedures.”
He nodded.
They understood each other immediately.
Before leaving, he asked one final question.
“Does your husband have access to firearms?”
“No.”
I said.
Then I remembered.
Walter had an old hunting rifle.
“It belongs to his father.”
“Where?”
“Possibly the basement storage room.”
Mercer wrote it down.
Three days passed.
My surgery repaired a complicated fracture.
The orthopedic surgeon explained that recovery would take months.
I might need additional physical therapy.
Possibly another procedure.
Nathan sent messages through relatives.
I did not answer.
Gloria called the hospital repeatedly.
She told staff I was confused from medication.
Then she said she was my emergency contact.
She was not.
Rebecca changed everything.
Passwords.
Medical permissions.
Financial access.
Emergency contacts.
