Chapter 5 - The Silent Witness
The word *conservatorship* hung in the sterile air like mustard gas.
"Wait," David muttered, rubbing his eyes, clearly overwhelmed. "Shouldn't we wait until Sarah can speak with the physicians properly? She just woke up, Harper. She was trying to tell me something about the corset."
Harper set the tea down on the bedside table with deliberate grace. She pulled her hair behind her ears, exposing the tiny diamond studs our father had given her the day he disinherited her from the firm's voting shares.
"David, she’s on heavy doses of hydromorphone and neuro-blockers," Harper said smoothly, her voice pitched to the exact frequency of maternal concern. "Dr. Thorne warned us about post-operative ICU delirium. Patients often experience acute paranoia or fabricate memories to explain traumatic injuries. You can't put her under legal stress right now."
She walked around to the side of the bed opposite David, leaning over the chrome rail. Her shadow fell over my chest, blocking the fluorescent light.
"Sarah knows how much I love her," Harper whispered, her fingers lightly brushing my paralyzed foot through the thermal blanket. There was no sensation, but the psychological violation was absolute. "She knows that all I care about is keeping Father’s legacy intact while she... rests."
My voice was returning, millimeter by agonizing millimeter. "Get... out."
David blinked, looking between us. "Sarah?"
"David," I said, every syllable costing me an immense metabolic effort. "Look at my design notebooks. In my safe at the brownstone. Blueprint box... shelf four. Call Detective Marcus Kane. Not the precinct officers. Kane. From the Financial and Industrial Crimes Unit."
Harper’s composure flickered for a fraction of a millisecond. A sharp, feral tension tightened the tendons in her neck.
"What does industrial crime have to do with an antique garment failure?" Harper asked, a cold edge slicing through her sweet veneer. "You're confusing your construction projects with your wedding, Sarah. You're exhausted."
"She said call Kane," David said quietly. For the first time, a sliver of suspicion disturbed the grief on his face. He stood up slowly, stepping back from Harper. "Why would she ask for an industrial investigator, Harper?"
May you like
"Because," I gasped, staring directly into my half-sister’s unblinking eyes, "corsets aren't made of tungsten-doped spring steel. But bridge cables are."
***
