Then pain caught under my ribs, sharp enough to remind me where that habit had brought me.
“Yes,” I said.
The process was not dramatic.
There were questions, pauses, and long stretches where the only sound was the soft hiss of the blood-pressure cuff.
I gave the same account again: the basement door, Judith’s whisper, the pressure between my shoulders, the missing step, and the concrete floor.
I showed the message Graham had sent.
I did not exaggerate anything.
I did not need to.
Near midnight, Graham was allowed back into the room after Judith had left the hospital.
He stood beside the wall instead of approaching the bed.
For years, that had been his position whenever his mother hurt someone.
Close enough to witness.
Far enough to claim helplessness.
“I panicked,” he said.
“So you lied.”
“I was trying to keep everyone calm.”
“I was at the bottom of a staircase.”
