The fiancée arrived ten minutes later.
White tailored suit.
Ivory handbag.
Gold jewelry.
Perfume filling the room before she reached the bed.
The housekeeper stood near the flowers.
The fiancée did not even look at her.
“Leave those.”
The housekeeper nodded.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stayed long enough to finish arranging the lilies.
The fiancée walked to the bed.
Touched the hospitalized man’s jaw.
Then waited.
The housekeeper glanced toward them.
The fiancée assumed she was occupied.
She leaned forward.
Her lips approached his ear.
“Die before Friday, honey.”
The hospitalized man felt her breath.
“The money moves faster when you stop breathing.”
Every muscle in his body wanted to react.
He imagined grabbing her wrist.
Opening his eyes.
Watching the confidence disappear.
Instead, he remained motionless.
The fiancée kissed his forehead.
Straightened.
Then left.
The door closed.
The housekeeper remained frozen beside the lilies.
For several seconds, she did not move.
Then:
“Mr. Vance?”
He almost reacted to the old name out of habit.
Stopped.
She walked toward the bed.
“I know you probably can’t hear me.”
Her voice trembled.
“But I heard her.”
The hospitalized man listened.
The housekeeper glanced toward the door.
“I heard her yesterday too.”
“She was talking to someone on the phone.”
“She said grief is only useful if someone photographs it.”
The housekeeper swallowed.
“I didn’t think that meant anything.”
“People say terrible things when they’re scared.”
She moved closer.
“But what she said just now…”
“That wasn’t grief.”
Her hand tightened around the blanket.
“That was a countdown.”
The hospitalized man’s pulse quickened again.
The housekeeper noticed the monitor.
She stared.
Then looked at him.
“I think they’re planning to finish what the crash didn’t.”
Her fingers brushed his hand beneath the blanket.
He moved his smallest finger.
The housekeeper stopped breathing.
Her eyes widened.
He moved it again.
She stumbled backward.
His eyelids opened.
For the first time in five days, someone outside the physician saw him fully conscious.
The housekeeper covered her mouth.
He whispered through the oxygen mask:
“Lock the door.”
She stared.
“What?”
“Door.”
She moved immediately.
The lock clicked.
He lifted one hand and removed the oxygen mask carefully.
Pain ran through his ribs.
He ignored it.
The housekeeper stood against the door.
“You’re awake.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Long enough.”
Her face changed.
“You heard everything?”
“Yes.”
She looked sick.
“All of it?”
“Enough.”
The housekeeper approached slowly.
“You’re pretending?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He watched her.
“Because somebody tried to kill me.”
She went completely still.
“The crash?”
He nodded.
She looked toward the locked door.
Then back at him.
“I knew something was wrong.”
“What?”
The housekeeper’s eyes shifted.
Something had been waiting behind them.
Fear.
Not surprise.
Fear.
The hospitalized man noticed immediately.