Page 156 of The Sweetest Obsession

I’ve got some important fuckingquestions, all right.

Like what I can do to keep Ophelia safe, besides staying by her side as much as possible. I have to make sure the Arrendells don’t get a single step closer to her.

After all, it’s not that house that brings misfortune.

It’s not that house that brings death.

If there’s a stain on this town, it’s them.

It’s in their blood.

And I damn sure won’t let it consume the woman I love.

18

ONE PLUS ONE (OPHELIA)

Idon’t know why Grant keeps acting like I’ve gotten less stubborn as I’ve gotten older.

When he tries to tell me to go home and rest, I tell him he knows exactly where he can stuff it. I won’t take no for an answer until he lets me tag along to the medical center.

I need to know what’s going on with my stalker and I’m hoping—

Actually, I don’t know what I’m hoping for.

Maybe that my own nursing expertise might help find answers somehow, even if it’s nothing more than a little analysis to help with the case report.

But it depends what he was poisoned with, and maybe a few vitals that might show whether he took it on purpose, by accident, or by force.

It’s hard being here again so soon, standing outside the big observation window looking in at a room that’s almost identical to Mom’s. Right down to the same yellowish curtains on the outside windows.

It’s not a big place.

She’s down the hall, too, just a few doors away.

It’s hard to remember I’m not here for her, though Grant’s presence at my side helps.

He’s grimly silent, his hazel eyes fixed firmly on the man’s lanky, pale figure as the doctors and nurses work, stripping him out of his tailcoat and the shirt and slacks underneath.

He’s wasted with more than just age.

Sunken ribs, grey skin, and his breaths come in shallow wheezes.

It’s painful to watch as they intubate him, forcing his throat to take the respirator tube. IV needles run glucose and whatever they think he needs to counteract organ failure.

They’re going to have to pump his stomach, probably, since he’s not conscious to take liquid charcoal or anything else to voluntarily expel the poison—assuming it’s not already too deep in his system.

There’s a foamy froth around his lips where the tube goes in.

My stomach flips over.

I have to close my eyes and look away.

“I can’t believe this was suicide,” I whisper. “His body’s shutting down in one of the worst ways possible. I just... I can’t imagine anyone dying that way voluntarily. If he overdosed on sleeping pills, maybe. Slipping away unconscious where you can’t feel the pain. But bleeding from the inside like that...”

“He’s not your mother, Butterfly,” Grant says quietly. One large, warm hand settles on my shoulder, a comforting weight that eases the shock of that sudden insight. “It’s not the same. You’re not watching your mother die. And she didn’t choose to suffer, either.”

My throat starts closing, my next breath coming ragged, but I manage to choke it back.

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