(Hailey Miller POV)
The hours crawled. The cell was a small, recoiling world where sound flattened into a single, relentless hum — the fluorescent lights, the building's pipes, my own blood in my ears. Dr. Evans' evaluation had the shape of an interview but the teeth of an interrogation.
She asked about sleep, about nightmares, about my "emotional state" since Ethan died, each question folded in a professional cadence that wanted confession without compassion.
I answered the questions the way you answer a ledger — plainly, item by item — trying to keep the arithmetic of my life intact. Did I dream about my husband? Of course. Did I feel watched? Yes. Every honest answer felt less like information and more like ammunition. To them, to Parker, the whole of me was being catalogued for fla
