“My grandson died tonight,” William Sterling said. “Privacy died with him.”
Garrett glanced toward the nurses, toward Dr. Harris, toward me. He was calculating, always calculating, trying to find the path that made him look least guilty.
But there was no clean path left.
His thumb shook as he unlocked the screen.
My father took the phone.
The message from Melissa was still there.
Last night was incredible. Call me when your wife calms down ❤️
My father read it once.
Then he read it again.
His expression did not change.
That was how I knew Garrett was finished.
“Who is Melissa?” he asked.
Garrett rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Someone from work.”
“From work,” my father repeated.
“It was a mistake.”
“A mistake is missing an exit on the highway,” my father said. “A mistake is spilling coffee on a contract. This was a choice.”
Garrett’s eyes reddened, but still no tears fell.
“I loved Ethan.”
My chest twisted so violently I thought I might be sick.
“Don’t say his name,” I whispered.
Garrett turned to me, desperate now. “Claire, I did love him. You know that. I was a good father.”
“You missed his preschool play.”
“I had a conference.”
“You missed his birthday breakfast.”
“My flight was delayed.”
“You missed the night he died.”
