Riley's POV
The woman sitting beside my hospital bed studies me with sharp, professional eyes. Every slight movement I make seems catalogued in her mind, as if she's building a detailed map of my psychological state.
"Do you remember what happened that night," she asks, her voice gentle but probing.
I manage a small nod, shifting carefully against the pillows. The pain medication dulls the worst of the physical agony, but moving still sends sharp reminders through my battered body.
"Good. And what about your mother? Do you understand what happened to her?"
The question hits me like a physical blow. My eyes squeeze shut as hot tears escape down my cheeks. She's the first person who's dared to address this directly. Everyone else has danced around the truth, treating me like fragile glass that might shatter at the slightest pressure. But she seems to believe I deserve to know, that I have the right to face reality.
