HE LIED TO YOU TOO.

The room disappeared. No monitor. No nurse. No rain tapping against the ambulance bay doors. Only Emily’s breathing, and those five words waiting there like they’d been meant for me.

I thought of Emily at six, asleep in the backseat after the county fair, clutching a stuffed rabbit with one dirty ear. I thought of her at seventeen, standing in our driveway with her college acceptance letter, pretending not to cry because she wanted to look brave.

I thought of her wedding day.

Daniel Carter Miller had worn a navy suit and polished shoes. He’d put one hand on my shoulder and said, “I’ll take care of her, sir.”

I had believed him. That’s the part that still shames me.