Detective Marcus Hale, a veteran investigator with tired eyes and a jawline carved from granite, ignored him entirely.

He stepped around Daniel, right to the edge of my mattress. “Mrs. Mercer? Are you conscious? Can you hear me?”

I let my eyelids flutter open, squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights. Daniel immediately lunged toward the bed, his face a mask of desperate, performative concern.

“Sweetheart, oh thank God. Please, don’t try to speak. Don’t upset yourself, you’re in shock,” he pleaded, reaching out to stroke my unbandaged cheek.

I turned my head slightly, locking my gaze onto his.

I didn’t blink. I just stared, letting the raw, unfiltered contempt I’d hidden for years radiate from my eyes. I stared until the muscles in his jaw twitched and his manufactured smile finally cracked into a grimace of genuine uncertainty.