I gasped, stumbling backward.
Paxton’s eyes were wide open.
They weren’t dull or vacant as they had been for the past two weeks; they were sharp, alert, and burning with intense focus. He dragged a breath into his lungs, his face pale, and raised a trembling finger.
He didn’t point at me. He didn’t point at the door.
He pointed straight at the black medical notebook resting on the side table.
“P-Paxton?” I stammered, tears bursting from my eyes as I dropped to my knees beside him. “Oh my God… Paxton!”
“Sshhh,” he rasped, his voice barely a dry whisper. “The camera… on the ceiling… cover it.”
I looked up at the small black dome lens mounted above the archway. Without hesitation, I threw my wool coat over the coat rack beside the bed, positioning it so the heavy fabric completely blocked the camera’s line of sight.
“Paxton, what is going on?” I whispered frantically, taking his hand. “They said you had brain damage! They said the fall—”
“The smoothie…” Paxton breathed, his knuckles white as he squeezed my hand. “It had… heavy sedatives. Haloperidol and paralytics. I realized it on the second day in the hospital… so I played dead.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “Why? Why would your own family do this to you?!”
“The notebook…” Paxton wheezed, pointing again with shaking fingers. “Open it… to the last section. The back pocket.”
