I couldn't tear my eyes away from Mrs. Dubois's face. Each breath she took seemed fragile, hanging in the balance between consciousness and the deep sleep that had claimed her. The steady beep of the monitors provided the only soundtrack to my vigil.
"It's my fault she's here," I whispered, my voice breaking slightly. The guilt pressed down on my chest like a physical weight.
Arthur's hand remained steady on my shoulder. "She collapsed because of years of health issues, not because of you."
"But I confronted her with that photo. I accused her..." The memory of her face—the shock and pain in her eyes—would haunt me forever.
"You had every right to ask questions," Arthur said firmly.
The door creaked open behind us. I turned, expecting to see a nurse, but instead found Alistair Dubois standing there. His normally impeccable appearance was disheveled—tie loosened, hair mussed as if he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly.
