He had written that my one-dollar transfer proved malicious intent.
Malicious intent.
The phrase looked ridiculous sitting beside the tremor in my hand and the hospital bracelet still cutting a faint mark into my wrist.
“May I show you something?” I asked.
The older officer nodded.
Ethan reached for the discharge folder.
I reached for the hospital call log.
My fingers shook so badly the paper rattled.
At the top was the intake note.
FAMILY NOTIFIED — CONDITION CRITICAL.
Below it were the call entries.
My mother had answered twice.
My father had returned one call.
The date matched my collapse.
The time stamps matched Jenna’s emails.
