The heavy front door clicked shut, the sound echoing through the cavernous, silent mansion. A minute later, the soft rumble of the family’s black SUV fading down the driveway confirmed they were on their way to Sky Harbor International Airport.
Nurse Kelly stood by the hospital bed, her face cold and clinical, adjusting the IV drip line that ran into Paxton’s arm. She tapped the black notebook against her hip, looking at me with thinly veiled disdain.
“I’m taking my break in the guest house,” Kelly said curtly, checking her watch. “The family expects you to remain at his bedside. Don’t touch the IV monitors.”
I didn’t answer. I sat quietly in the leather armchair beside the bed, watching her step through the patio doors and slide them shut.
The moment her footsteps died away on the flagstone path, the heart rate monitor beside the bed began to beep at a frantic, elevated rhythm. I stood up in panic, reaching for the call button—until a firm, calloused hand shot out from beneath the sheet and grabbed my wrist.
