"We understand. Thank you for your time."
Mrs. Whitfield closed the door to her husband's room with a quiet finality that spoke volumes. Her shoulders remained squared for a moment before they slumped, as if a burden she'd been carrying had suddenly doubled in weight. The hallway was quiet except for the distant sounds of a television and the soft squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum. She turned to face them, her eyes lined with exhaustion but clear with resolve.
"I'm so sorry about that," she said, her voice low but steady. "Mason has good days and bad days. This was... not a good day. We don’t get a lot of them anymore."
Ben studied her face, noting the deep creases around her mouth that spoke of years of worry. Her hands, clasped tightly in front of her flowered dress, bore the blue veins and sun spots of age, but they didn't tremble like her husband's. There was strength in her stillness.
“I’m sorry if we upset him,” Ben said. “That was not our intention.”
“It’s fine,” she said with a shake of her head. “My husband can be unpredictable.”
"Mrs. Whitfield," Kelly began, her voice still uneven from the confrontation. "Your husband seemed to?—"
"Lori Powell was pregnant," Mrs. Whitfield interrupted, glancing quickly up and down the empty hallway before continuing in a hushed tone. "Eight weeks along, according to the autopsy. Mason agreed to keep it quiet as a favor to her parents."
Ben felt Kelly sway slightly beside him. He placed a steadying hand at the small of her back, not caring if Mrs. Whitfield noticed the gesture.
"You're sure?" Kelly asked, though it wasn't really a question.
Mrs. Whitfield nodded, her mouth set in a grim line.
"The Powells came to our house the night before the report was finalized. They begged him to leave it out. Said Lori had suffered enough indignity. If I were a parent, I might have done the same. This is a small town, you know."
"And he agreed," Ben said flatly.
"Yes. He removed it from the official report." Mrs. Whitfield's eyes flickered with something, but she turned away so quickly he couldn’t tell what emotion she was trying to hide. "The Powells were influential. Robert was on the hospital board. He'd helpedMason keep his medical license after that... incident with the pregnant woman years before. We owed them."
Ben's jaw tightened. Small towns and their webs of favors and threats. Everyone caught in the sticky strands, unable or unwilling to break free.
"That's illegal," Kelly said, her voice stronger now, indignation bringing color back to her cheeks. "He tampered with evidence in a murder investigation."
"Yes, he did." Mrs. Whitfield didn't attempt to defend her husband's actions. “If you’re expecting me to defend him, you’ll be disappointed. I’m not going to.”
She glanced back at the closed door, then took a step further down the hallway, guiding them away from her husband's room.
"I heard the entire conversation that night," Mrs. Whitfield continued once they were safely out of earshot. "Robert said it would destroy Liz if people knew. She was already barely holding on after Lori's death. He said the pregnancy wasn't relevant to finding the killer."
"But it was," Ben argued. "It gives someone a motive."
"That's what Mason said too, at first." Mrs. Whitfield's smile was sad. "But Robert was persuasive. And Mason... he'd made mistakes in his career. He needed allies, not enemies."
Kelly shook her head, frustration radiating from her in waves.
"Did he know who the father was? Was it Cal?"
"If he knew, he never told me." Mrs. Whitfield's hands twisted together. "Mason isn't a good man, Miss Bateman. I don't pretend otherwise. He's selfish and bitter. He made choices that hurt people. But he's paid a price too."
Her gaze drifted to a small bench near the window at the end of the hallway. She moved toward it, sitting with the careful deliberation of someone whose joints protested every movement. Ben and Kelly sat on either side of her, waiting.
"Mason has pancreatic cancer," Mrs. Whitfield said without preamble. "Less than three months to live, according to his doctors. He refused treatment beyond pain management. Said he'd seen enough people suffer through chemo to know he'd rather go quickly."
Whitfield’s anger at the world didn’t seem so strange now.
"I'm sorry," Kelly said, her voice soft. “I’m so very sorry.”
"Don't be. Mason made his choices. We all did." Mrs. Whitfield stared out the window at the carefully manicured garden. An elderly man with a walker inched along a stone path, a nurse patiently at his side. "I stood by him through everything. The anger issues. The drinking. The incident at the hospital. I took vows, you see. For better or worse."
Her smile was small, but this time it was genuine.
