“Claire,” I whispered, but the sound was swallowed by the hum of the machines.

A nurse began chest compressions.

The rhythmic, dull thud of her hands pressing against Claire’s chest echoed in the small room.

With every compression, Claire’s lifeless body jolted slightly on the mattress.

“Charge to two hundred,” Dr. Shah ordered.

The defibrillator whirred, a rising pitch that set my teeth on edge.

“Clear.”

The nurse stepped back.

Dr. Shah pressed the paddles to her chest.

Claire’s body arched off the bed as the current surged through her.

She fell back against the pillows.

The monitor continued its flat, unbroken tone.

“Again,” Dr. Shah said, his face tight with concentration. “Increase to three hundred.”

I closed my eyes.

The image of Claire folding my sons’ laundry in the quiet of our home flashed before me.

She had spent months in my house, moving like a ghost.

She had tolerated my coldness, my silence, and my grief.

She had done it all just to be near Lucas and Owen.

And I had never looked closely enough to see her.

“Clear.”