Reilan doesn't move toward Father's room. Just stands there, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"What?" I ask finally.
"You took his orders." His voice is low. Controlled. "William Murphy gave you orders, and you followed them like some obedient—"
"Don't." I cut him off. "Don't finish that sentence."
"He had no right to dictate how you see your own father."
"He had every right." The words taste bitter. "I'm going to be his wife. That gives him rights whether we like it or not."
"So you're just going to roll over? Let him control you?"
"I'm going to be strategic." I keep my voice even. "There's a difference."
Reilan's jaw works. "Father would be disappointed."
"Father is the one who arranged this marriage." The anger flares hot and quick. "Father is the one who made me Murphy property. So don't tell me what he'd think."
We stare at each other. Brother and sister. Allies who suddenly feel like opponents.
"I'm sorry." Reilan exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "I just...I don't like seeing you take orders from him."
"I don't like giving him the satisfaction." I adjust my purse on my shoulder. "But I also don't like being an easy target. His security makes sense, even if his attitude doesn't."
Reilan nods slowly. "You're right. I know you're right. I just..."
"I know."
We stand in the hallway for another moment. Then Reilan gestures toward Father's room.
"Ready?"
No. I'm not ready. I don't know if I'll ever be ready to see my father like this.
But I nod anyway.
The room is small. One bed. One chair. Machines everywhere, their screens glowing green and blue, numbers scrolling, lines tracking heartbeat, and blood pressure and oxygen levels.
Father lies in the center of it all.
He looks smaller than I remember. Paler. The strong man who built our family from nothing, who commanded respect with a look, who never showed weakness, reduced to this. Tubes in his arms. A bandage wrapped around his throat where the bullet tore through.
My breath catches.
Reilan's hand finds my shoulder.
I force myself to move closer. To look at him properly.
His face is gray. Stubble covers his jaw, making him look older, rougher. His hands rest on top of the thin hospital blanket, and I can see how still they are. Father's hands are never still. Always moving, gesturing, gripping whiskey glasses or contract pens or my mother's hand before she died.
Now they're just...still.
I sink into the chair beside the bed. The plastic creaks under my weight.
"Father," I say quietly. Not expecting an answer. Just needing to say it.
The machines beep in response, steady and rhythmic.
