"It's fine," Devon repeated, his voice barely above a whisper yet carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "I will find out who did it myself."
For a long moment, no one moved.
The family members exchanged glances—quick, flickering looks laden with unease, suspicion, and something deeper.
It was fear.
Marcus's eyes narrowed slightly at Tyler, Tyler's gaze darted to Rachel with a flicker of uncertainty, Rachel turned toward Eleanor, searching her former mother-in-law's face for reassurance, Eleanor in turn studied her sisters with a subtle tightening of her lips, as if seeing them anew.
Then, almost as one, their attention shifted back to the bed, where Harlan Schweitzer now slept deeply and peacefully, his chest rising and falling in the slow, untroubled rhythm of genuine exhaustion.
The red handprint on his cheek had begun to fade at the edges, softening into a dull pink, but it remained a vivid reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded.
