"What happened?"

The doctor pressed his lips together and took a measured breath. "The police have all the information," he began. "But from what we’ve been told, the brakes failed. She hit a tree. The collision was too intense. Internal hemorrhaging, massive organ trauma." He hesitated a beat, then added quietly, "She didn’t suffer for long. I’m sorry."

Winn blinked, his mind scrambling to catch up.

The doctor gestured toward the nurse at the door. "I have to attend to another case, Mr. Kane. Please, take your time."

"Yeah," Winn murmured. "Thanks, Doctor."

As Doctor Stanton turned toward the hallway, his low baritone voice carried faintly back into the room.

"The assault victim in Ward 57," Stanton said. "Her uncle wants her moved to the VIP floor. No guests, no visitors. He’s arranged for private security — only her mother and uncle are allowed in. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Doctor Stanton," the nurse replied obediently.

Winn’s gaze flicked briefly toward the door. Assault victim. Ward 57. Another tragedy just a few doors down.

He exhaled and looked down again at Diane.

The pale fluorescent light above her bed made her skin look porcelain smooth, her lashes resting gently on her cheeks as if she were only sleeping. But there was no warmth in her anymore, no faint rise of breath beneath the thin white sheet.

"I’m sorry," Winn whispered. "I’m so damn sorry." He reached out and brushed his fingers against the sheet. "You were right all this time, weren’t you?" he said softly, a sad laugh escaping him. "You said I worked too much. Said I was keeping him — keeping Joey — away from you. I was selfish."

He let out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. "God, I should’ve let him spend every waking minute with you. Work could wait. The company, the fucking investors — all of that could burn to the ground."

Winn’s eyes burned, his vision blurring. "How am I supposed to help him, Diane?" he whispered.

He choked on the next words. "He’s my best friend. I can’t let him fall apart — I can’t — but I’m barely holding it together myself."

He reached out a trembling hand and brushed his fingers through her hair. His hand lingered there, resting at the crown of her head as if she might stir and grumble about him ruining her hair. "I should’ve tried better to know you more," he whispered.

"You were always right there, smiling, showing up at dinners, supporting him — supporting us — and I just... I treated you like background noise. Like you were part of the scenery that made Joey’s world make sense, but not someone I had to know." He laughed bitterly and shut his eyes.

"Maybe if I had, I’d know what to say to him now. Maybe I’d know how to save him from this."

"Maybe if I’d just paid attention," he whispered. His jaw clenched, the muscle twitching. "Jesus... Joey..."

He blinked hard, trying to hold himself together, but the tears spilled anyway. He’d been raised to compartmentalize, to stay composed under pressure, to lead, to dominate while the rest of the world burned quietly in the background. But this was grief. There was no manual for this kind of ruin.

He’d never been good at feelings. Joey was the one who loved loudly. Winn had been the opposite.

"This...I don’t know how to fucking do this."

"I don’t know how to help him," he said to the empty room. "He’s going to break. And I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t even know how to stop me from breaking."

He exhaled and walked out of the room, prepared to face Joey with the facts. As he turned to leave, he glanced past the number 57 stenciled neatly on the next door.

He walked past it, unaware that the woman hidden in Ward 57 might just be the one soul he’d been searching for all along.

*****

Tom entered the house, the faint echo of a church organ still ringing mockingly in his ears. The ceremony had ended in disaster — a spectacle of whispers, scandal, and disappointment. Anna was still there weaving excuses.

Tom loosened his tie. How fitting, he thought. The night might have gone sideways for the rest of them, but not for him. The chaos was part of the plan. Diane’s accident? Convenient. The runaway bride? Expected. All he needed now was to reel Sylvia back in — his beautiful, malleable girl.

He headed down the long corridor to his study. His sanctuary. As he reached for the door and opened, the faintest metallic click sliced through the silence. A gun — his gun — being cocked.

Tom froze for a heartbeat, every instinct sharpening. Then, instead of panic, a slow smile spread across his face. Well, well.

The lights flickered on. Sylvia was sitting in his chair. His gun was steady in her hand. The sight of her — composed — sent a strange jolt through him. Pride.

"Well," he drawled, undoing the top button of his shirt, "wouldn’t this be a poetic way to go? Shot down by my own daughter. Didn’t think you had the guts, sweetheart."

"It’s you," she said. "It’s all been you."

"You’ll have to be more specific, darling. I’ve done quite a lot of things in my life worth shooting a man over." He took a step closer.

Sylvia’s hands trembled so badly that the muzzle of the gun quivered. Her pulse was a hurricane in her throat, her breath coming in ragged bursts.

"You lied to me."

"No, I did not. I may have... omitted certain facts, but I didn’t lie."

"Stop lying to me!!!" she screamed. The gun shook violently in her hands, her finger grazing the trigger.

For the first time, Tom raised both hands slightly, palms open. "Okay, okay, Syl. Easy now. You’re upset, and rightly so. But listen to me—I’ll tell you the truth. You want it, don’t you?"

Her eyes were wild, glistening with unshed tears. "You had something to do with Diane’s accident."

Tom’s jaw flexed. Then, as casually as if she had asked if he wanted a drink, he said, "Yes. Yes, I did."