Then I smiled.
It hurt.
The torn skin along my cheek pulled tight beneath the bandages, and something sharp moved under my ribs. The monitors beside my bed continued their careful rhythm, measuring every breath, every heartbeat, every second Preston believed no longer belonged to me.
Richard Whitaker watched my expression change.
He did not smile back.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
My voice came out as little more than air.
“Let him collect.”
Richard’s steel-gray eyes narrowed.
“He cannot collect on a fraudulent death claim.”
“I didn’t say pay him.”
I tightened my fingers over the blanket.
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“Let him believe he can.”
