I looked at the steel handcuffs biting into Daniel’s wrists, the metal gleaming under the harsh, flickering fluorescent lights of the hospital. The detective’s words, premeditated murder, echoed in my mind, over and over, like a bell tolling for a funeral.
"You did this to me, Daniel," I whispered, but my voice was so weak it barely carried across the bed.
The detective didn't even look at me. He was busy reading Daniel his rights, a robotic, droning recitation that felt like a final nail being driven into a coffin. Daniel didn't struggle. He didn't shout. He stood there with his shoulders squared, his face a mask of cold, unyielding stone.
But his eyes were fixed on mine, and in them, I saw a flicker of something I couldn't name. Was it guilt? Or was it the look of a man who had final
