The words landed soft, almost polite, but they punched straight through my sternum.
I forced a smile, kept my voice steady.
“Just visiting, that’s all.”
She nodded slowly, gaze drifting to Ben. Her brow creased.
“And you… tall fella… you look familiar, but I can’t quite…”
Ben leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gentle as I’d ever seen him.
“We’re the ones who bring the lemon cookies, ma’am. The good ones from Fairhope.”
A faint smile tugged at her mouth.
“Well, that’s kind of you. Real kind. I’m tired now, though. Think I’ll rest a spell.” She patted my hand — still resting on hers — absently, like comforting a stranger. “Y’all come back anytime. It gets lonely here.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and capped the nail polish.
“We will. Sleep well, Granny.”
She was already sinking back into the pillows, eyes fluttering closed.
Ben stood first, touching my shoulder. I leaned down one last time, pressed a kiss to her forehead. She didn’t stir.
We slipped out quietly. The hallway felt longer on the way back, the antiseptic smell sharper. I didn’t speak until we reached the parking lot, and even then my voice came out small.
“I’m not driving.”
Ben didn’t argue. He’d let me take the wheel this morning in his hand-restored metal-flake crimson ’67 Camaro — the one he usually babied like a firstborn — because I’d wanted thedistraction of that rumbling big-block on the drive over. Now he just opened the passenger door for me, waited until I was settled, then circled to the driver’s side.
The leather seats still smelled faintly of the detail shop and the pine tree air freshener he pretended not to like. He fired it up, the engine settling into that low, predatory growl, and eased us out of the lot.
We hadn’t even reached the stop sign at the highway when his phone buzzed in the console. UNKNOWN NUMBER flashed on the screen. He glanced at me; I nodded. He hit speaker.
“Stonewood.”
“Mr. Stonewood, this is Assistant District Attorney Ramirez. Sorry to call on a weekend, but I wanted to give you and Mrs. Stonewood the update personally.”
Ben’s hand tightened on the shifter.
“Go ahead.”
“We’re denying any plea offers to Vivian Stonewood. Her attorney floated one yesterday for manslaughter on your father, for which she’d get maybe fifteen years, tops. We shut it down. We’ve got the recorded confession, the forensic matches on the brake line tampering, the medication logs, the emails. It’s ironclad. We’re going for murder in the first on Jacob Stonewood, attempted murder on you, and the fraud counts. Asking for life, no parole.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Ramirez continued, his voice steady.
“Bail remains denied. She’s still in county — no visitors except counsel, no outside contact. Her assets are frozen pending forfeiture. Trial’s docketed for March, but between the confession and the evidence chain, it’s a formality. She’s not walking out of this one.”
Ben’s jaw flexed.
“Appreciate the call, Counselor.”
“Least we could do. You two take care.”
The line went dead.
