She was alive at the bottom of the stairs.”
Rosalie’s fingernails dug into her palms.
“I heard her breathing.”
Silas shouted, “She was dying!”
“You were a doctor!”
Merrick shouted back.
Silas froze.
Merrick looked at Rosalie.
“He didn’t send for anyone.”
Rosalie stared at her father.
“No.”
“Rosalie—”
“No.”
Her father’s face blurred behind tears.
“You could have helped her.”
“She had a head injury.”
“You could have tried.”
Silas looked desperate now.
“She would have exposed everything.”
There it was.
Not murder in the calculated sense.
Something smaller.
More cowardly.
And perhaps more monstrous.
Eleanor had fallen accidentally during their struggle.
And Silas Ashford, physician, husband, father, had looked at his injured wife and decided that her death solved his problems.
Rosalie’s knees weakened.
Gideon caught her.
She pressed both hands against his chest.
For several seconds she could not move.
His heartbeat was strong beneath her palm.
