The heavy oak door clicked shut.
The sound was like a guillotine severing the invisible string that held Alistair Croft together.
“He’s gone,” William exhaled, slumping against the desk. “It’s over.”
From the wheelchair, a low, wet gurgle rose from Alistair’s throat.
“Alistair?” Victoria turned sharply.
His head fell back against the headrest, his eyes rolling up into his skull. The steady beep of the heart monitor fractured into a chaotic, screaming alarm.
“His heart rate is 180!” Maya shouted, sprinting into the room from the hallway. “He’s in V-Fib!”
“Get the crash cart!” Victoria yelled, ripping open his shirt.
The adrenaline that had allowed him to speak, to negotiate, and to lie had burned through the last of his reserves. His heart, weakened by months of paralysis and the sudden, violent exertion of the confession, was giving out.
“Dad!” Malcolm screamed, dropping to his knees beside the chair.
Alistair couldn’t hear them anymore. The pain was gone. The silence was back. But this time, it wasn’t a cage. It was a release.