after his voice failed.
“The car was yours.”
No one moved.
The quiet was broken only by the soft pulse of the monitor beside his bed.
I stared at him, trying to understand how a car belonging to me could have been involved in an accident three years before I entered the Thornton estate.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered. “I didn’t own a car then.”
Ethan’s eyes remained fixed on mine.
His fingers shifted weakly inside my hand.
Jason stepped farther into the room. The color had not returned to his face.
“What exactly does he mean?” he asked.
Vivian turned toward him.
“That is what we are trying to determine.”
The neurologist adjusted the writing board on Ethan’s lap.
“Mr. Thornton needs rest. His recovery is encouraging, but he should not be pressured.”
Ethan’s hand tightened around the pen.
With visible effort, he wrote another word.
