My father’s whisper echoed in my head long after I left the hospital.
It followed me through traffic, through red lights and rain-smeared glass, through the silence of my apartment.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at nothing, hearing those words again and again until they stopped sounding like a sentence and started sounding like a confession.
Daniel wasn’t running. He was bleeding quietly, deliberately, so others could breathe.
That truth landed slowly, painfully, like a bruise forming beneath the skin. Every cold word he’d spoken to me. Every wall he’d built. The confession. The Will. The Swiss account. It wasn’t betrayal.
It was bait.
I opened my laptop with shaking hands. The Swiss account number from the Will stared back at me, cold and precise.
Now I looked again, slow
