The sight that greeted us as we burst into Mrs. Dubois's hospital room was chaos incarnate.
Fiona lay sprawled dramatically on the floor, her designer dress hiked up indecently around her thighs. A pool of blood spread beneath her like spilled wine, stark crimson against the sterile white tiles. She clutched her stomach, her face contorted in what appeared to be agony—but something about her performance seemed rehearsed, calculated.
Caleb knelt beside her, cradling her head while shooting daggers at me with his eyes. "What have you done?" he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls.
The room had transformed from the peaceful vigil I'd left earlier to this staged nightmare. Mrs. Dubois remained unconscious through it all, the steady beep of her heart monitor a bizarre soundtrack to the unfolding drama.
"She pushed me!" Fiona wailed, pointing a trembling finger at me. "Elara killed my baby! She pushed me and killed my baby!"
