The medic at my side looked up sharply. “You memorized her chart?”
Ethan didn’t glance away from me. “Yes.”
Of course he had.
One medic secured a monitor around my abdomen while the other checked vitals. Ethan stayed close enough that my hand could remain locked around his wrist. He let me hold on as tightly as I needed, even when my nails dug hard enough to leave crescents in his skin.
My mother found her voice at last.
“What is happening?”
Ethan lifted his head and turned toward her.
He was not a cruel man. I have seen him show more patience to strangers than most people offer their families. But in that moment whatever he might have said gently had died somewhere above the Atlantic.
“Your daughter asked for help,” he said. “You chose not to give it.”
The words were quiet.
That made them worse.
My mother flushed. “That is not fair. We didn’t know—”
“You were told.” His eyes moved to my father. “Repeatedly.”
My father, stung into anger by being addressed as an equal instead of a superior, drew himself up. “And who exactly do you think you are, landing a helicopter on private property?”
Ethan rose halfway, never releasing my hand.