A file directory appeared on the screen.
Folders filled the display.
Corporate.
Legal.
Medical.
Insurance.
Iris.
Evelyn.
Caldwell.
My maiden name stopped me cold.
“Open Caldwell,” Daniel said.
The examiner hesitated. “Only a preview—”
“Open it.”
He clicked.
Inside was a single video file dated eight years ago.
The filename was not dramatic.
Lobby_Cam_StCatherine_0417.
St. Catherine’s Hospital.
The night of my “fall.”
My hands went numb.
Evelyn took one step forward. “Do not play that.”
Daniel looked at her. “Why?”
For the first time since she entered, Evelyn Mitchell looked afraid.
Not for herself.
For me.
“Iris,” she said, and her voice changed. It thinned, almost cracked. “There are truths that do not heal simply because they are uncovered.”
I stared at the screen.
For ten years, I had believed I knew the worst night of my marriage. I remembered the argument. The stairs. The pain. Jason’s voice above me, distant and panicked, telling me not to move. I remembered waking in the hospital with Evelyn beside me, telling me the story we would use.
