He stepped closer to me, his shadow falling across my face.

“It looks like a breakdown,” he whispered.

I didn’t move away.

“I am perfectly sane, Daniel,” I said.

“That’s not what the medical records will say,” he said.

The room felt suddenly smaller.

“What medical records?” I asked.

“The ones from Saint Jude’s,” he said.

The name of the hospital felt like a physical blow.

My throat went dry.

“That was private,” I said.

“Nothing is private when you are married to me,” he said.

He looked at me with a cold, analytical curiosity.

“A woman loses a child,” he said, his voice flat. “It’s a tragedy.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch between us.

“But when she starts painting dark, angry pictures and claiming her husband is a criminal,” he continued.

“That isn’t grief, Daniel,” I said. “That’s the truth.”

“The public won’t see it that way,” he said. “The public will see a grieving mother who lost her grip on reality.”

He reached out and touched my collarbone, his fingers cold against my skin.

I flinched, but I didn’t step back.