“But if she wakes up—”
“If she wakes up, she’s a traumatized hero who got confused,” Warren interrupted ruthlessly. “This country needs a scapegoat, Grant. Let the bitch take the fall. Let her drown with that useless medal of hers. Just sign the damn papers before we both get indicted.”
I slammed the laptop shut. The silence in the hotel room was deafening, broken only by the sound of my own ragged breathing.
My parents hadn’t been tricked. My father wasn’t a tragic victim of his son’s manipulation, blindly protecting him out of love. Warren had orchestrated it. While I lay dying, having sacrificed my lungs and my future to save strangers, my father had stood over my bed and slit my throat to save his bank accounts.
The sun began to bleed through the hotel curtains, casting a sickly gray light across the floor. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Jenkins: Court resumes at 9. See you in prep. Are you okay?
