Chapter 9 - The Waiting Game
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After Jonah left, the silence of the ICU felt heavier, thicker. I lay beneath the flickering fluorescent lights and listened to the machines speak for me.
Beep. Breath. Beep. Breath.
I felt the tiny, hard plastic edge of the micro-recorder tucked just inside the rough plaster near my right thumb. It was my only lifeline to the outside world, a tiny technological bridge between my paralyzed body and justice.
Jonah had told me the police needed a confession or an overt act. Suspicion was not enough. The forged life insurance policy was circumstantial without proof of intent. The offshore accounts were financial crimes, not murder. Truth, I had learned in my years as an auditor, was utterly useless unless it could be preserved, timestamped, duplicated, and presented without a shred of emotion.
So, I waited.
The psychological toll of remaining completely still was excruciating. When my nose itched, I had to let it burn. When a muscle in my crushed leg spasmed, I had to bite down on my tongue to keep from thrashing. I became a prisoner in my own mind, locking my terror away behind a wall of cold, analytical calculation.
I knew they would come. Cordelia was a perfectionist. She did not leave loose ends. And a daughter-in-law who might wake up and remember that the balcony railing had been deliberately unbolted was the ultimate loose end.
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The third night fell. Outside my window, a heavy rain began to fall, tapping softly against the reinforced glass. The hospital shifted into its midnight rhythm. The lights dimmed. The nurses’ rounds became less frequent.
I kept my breathing shallow. I rested my thumb gently against the trigger of the recorder. I watched the door.
