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Sam almost smiled. I saw it start before she caught herself, walls slamming back up.

“Don’t,” she warned her mother. “Don’t pretend to care about my choices now.”

“I’m dying, Samantha. I’ll care about whatever I want.” Diane shifted, winced. “Sophie is coming tomorrow. I need you both here.”

“Absolutely not.”

“There are things I haven’t said. Things that need saying before I run out of time.”

“You had almost thirty years to say them.”

“And I was a coward for almost thirty years. Would you prefer I die a coward too?”

Sam’s jaw clenched. The almost-smile from moments ago was completely gone, replaced by the armor she wore around her family.

“I’m not sitting through some deathbed reconciliation scene with Sophie,” she said. “Not after everything.”

“I’m not asking for reconciliation. I’m asking for truth.”

“Whose truth? Yours? Sophie’s? Because I already know mine.”

Diane closed her eyes, looked every one of her seventy years. “You know part of it. Not all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means come back tomorrow. Both of you.” Her eyes opened, found mine. “You’ll stay? Keep her from running?”

“That’s not my call,” I said.

“But you’ll try.”

I looked at Sam, saw the war playing out on her bruised face. Family loyalty versus self-preservation. Old habits versus new boundaries.

“I’ll support whatever she decides,” I said finally.

Diane nodded, apparently satisfied. “The guest room is made up. Second floor, end of the hall.”

“We’re getting a hotel,” Sam said immediately.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re hurt, it’s late, and I’m dying. Stay.”

“Mom…”

“Please.” The word came out cracked, desperate. “One night. Give me one night with my daughter under my roof before it’s too late.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged. I knew that look. The weight of obligation settling back onto someone who’d spent months learning to put it down.

“Fine,” she said. “One night.”

They looked at each other then, mother and daughter, years of complicated history compressed into that single glance. Not forgiveness yet.

“There are painkillers in the bathroom cabinet,” Diane said finally. “For your face. The couch in the guest room pulls out. Unless you two are already…”

“Good night, Mom,” Sam cut her off, turning toward the stairs.

I followed, pausing at the doorway. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Collins.”

“Diane,” she corrected. “Thank you for staying. For giving her something to fight for besides revenge.”