Mark didn’t want to help me with the bills. He wanted me to sign that power of attorney so he could declare David incompetent and take the entire business. He had probably been planning this for months.

And the cr*sh… the cr*sh was his way of making sure David never found out about his real identity.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. Something older and steadier rose up inside me.

“Bob,” I said calmly. “Don’t do anything yet. I’m going to call the sheriff’s office. And I need you to meet me at the hospital tomorrow morning.”

The next afternoon, Mark showed up at the hospital. He was wearing his work boots and his heavy flannel shirt, carrying a cardboard tray with two coffees.

“Hey, Clara,” he said, smiling his warm, easy smile as he walked into Room 412. “How’s our boy doing today? Any changes?”

David was sitting up in bed. He looked pale, but his eyes were clear.

I was standing by the window. Bob was sitting in the vinyl chair, holding a manila folder.

And standing in the corner of the room, behind the privacy curtain, was a woman with dark hair. She was wearing a simple yellow sweater. She looked so much like David it made my breath hitch.

Mark stopped in his tracks. The cardboard coffee tray slipped from his hand, spilling hot liquid all over the linoleum floor.

He looked at the woman in the corner. His face went from healthy, outdoorsy red to a pale, sickly gray in three seconds flat.

“Who… who is this?” Mark stammered, his voice cracking.

“You know who she is, Mark,” I said, stepping away from the window. “This is Sarah. David’s sister.”

Mark tried to laugh, but it sounded like a choke. “Clara, what is this nonsense?

David doesn’t have a sister. You’re losing your mind from the stress. Let’s go home. Let’s get you some rest.”

“We found the surrender documents, Mark,” Bob said, opening the manila folder. “And we also found the email exchanges on your work computer. The ones where you paid a mechanic named Carl three thousand dollars to ‘inspect’ David’s truck the night before the cr*sh.”

Mark’s mouth opened and closed. He looked like a fish gasping for air. He looked at David, then at Sarah, then at the door.

Two sheriff’s deputies stepped out of the hallway, blocking his exit.

“Mark,” Deputy Miller said, stepping into the room. “We need you to come down to the station for some questions regarding a vehicular assault investigation.”

Mark didn’t say a word. He didn’t yell. He didn’t defend himself. He just looked at the floor, his shoulders slumping, and let the deputy lead him out of the room.

I stood there for a long time, listening to the squeak of their boots fading down the corridor.