“She won’t,” William said automatically, then hated himself for the reflexive human wish that tried to spare complication rather than confront moral truth. He corrected himself. “If she dies, my son still acted in self-defense.”
“I agree,” Stark said. “The law may agree. But we’ll need testimony, context, experts.”
William looked toward Owen’s room. “Then they’ll have it.”
By dawn, he had an emergency family attorney on retainer, two voice mails from the college dean expressing concern, a text from Marsha’s sister insisting there had to be an explanation, and one message from an unknown number that simply read: You’ve always been unstable. Don’t destroy this family because you’re looking for monsters.
William blocked it without responding.
At 9:15 a.m., after a sleepless night in a chair beside Owen’s bed, he watched his son wake from a shallow doze and for one terrible second not know where he was. Panic flashed across the child’s face. Then he saw William and burst into tears.
William gathered him carefully. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
“Don’t let them take me,” Owen whispered.
“No one is taking you anywhere.”
“Promise?”