CHAPTER 162: WHOM TO TRUST?

Logan’s hand gently wrapped around hers. "It doesn’t matter what he thinks right now."

His voice was calm, but unwavering. "He’s grieving. And people in grief don’t always know who they’re throwing stones at. Even if you stayed and explained everything, he wouldn’t hear it."

Jean looked down, her throat tightening. "But I feel like I failed Emma. I should’ve picked up the call. I should’ve known she was..."

"Stop," Logan said, his voice suddenly sharper, almost pained. "Don’t do that. Don’t carry guilt that doesn’t belong to you."

He stepped in front of her, making her look up at him.

"You did everything you could. We both did. What happened to Emma isn’t your fault. And whatever kind of man Morris Adams is... right now, he’s just a father watching his daughter suffer. That rage wasn’t truly meant for you. It was for himself. His regrets. His guilt. His cowardice."

Jean’s eyes searched his. "So what do we do now?"

Logan squeezed her hand. "We leave. We give him space. And when the time is right... when Emma wakes up... we’ll make sure she knows who truly stood by her."

Jean nodded slowly. The strength in Logan’s words steadied her.

As they turned to walk down the corridor, her steps still felt heavy, but at least she wasn’t walking them alone.

Not anymore.

________________________

The corridor was eerily quiet, save for the muffled beeping of machines and the distant hum of doctors making their rounds.

Morris sat slumped in the cushioned bench outside the ICU, his elbows on his knees, hands trembling as he ran them through his graying hair. His suit was wrinkled, tie loosened, and his eyes bloodshot.

He hadn’t slept... not really. Not since the accident. Not since the moment the hospital had called.

Emma.

His little girl.

His only anchor in this twisted life.

The sound of heels against the tiled floor pulled his attention.

Darla arrived first, dressed in a pristine cream trench coat, the kind that suggested wealth, not warmth. She gave Morris a carefully measured hug.

"Morris... I came as soon as I heard. I’m so sorry."

Morris barely nodded, his mouth dry. "She’s still unconscious. Third-degree burns. A broken wrist. A cracked rib."

Before she could respond, Derek strode in, his phone still in hand. He hung up and muttered something under his breath, then looked at Morris with a mask of concern.

"We’ll make sure she gets the best doctors. If there’s anything, just say the word."

Morris didn’t answer.

Then came the last one. Alex.

He entered with a somber look on his face, a bouquet of fresh lilies in hand, far too elegant for the sterile air of this tragedy. His eyes scanned Morris, then the door, then the floor. No remorse, no guilt... only a cold calculation beneath the surface.

"Morris," Alex said smoothly. "I can’t imagine the pain you’re in."

Morris finally looked up, jaw clenched. "Where the hell did you go last night? You said you were stepping out for a smoke and just vanished."

Alex blinked once, composed. "I thought it would be best not to interrupt the heated conversation. I went home. Got the news this morning."

Derek nodded. "Yeah, we assumed you left. We were all too strung out."

Morris turned away, burying his face in his hands again. "She kept calling someone. Over and over. And no one picked up. I failed her."

Alex’s eyes flicked to the closed ICU door, his expression unreadable. He didn’t dare look too long. She can’t wake up. Not now. Not ever.

Not when she knows what I did.

__________________________

The silence in the room was unnerving. Evening street light spilled through the tall windows, but it did nothing to ease the heaviness clinging to the air.

Logan stood by the kitchen counter, coffee untouched in his hand. Jean sat on the sofa, her phone in her lap, screen dark.

Neither of them had said much since they returned from the hospital. Emma’s condition had rattled them both. But it was the unanswered calls on both their phones that made it worse... she had reached out to them. Desperately.

Then came the knock on the door.

It was Henry.

He looked grim, like sleep had eluded him too.

Jean stood up quickly. "Henry..."

He stepped in with a slight nod to Logan. "I came as soon as I got off the call with the hospital."

Logan gave a short nod, setting his coffee down. "Any updates?"

Henry shook his head. "Same. She’s stable... still unconscious."

Jean wrung her hands, her eyes flickering with concern. "Henry, you dropped her off at her father’s house last night, right? After we landed?"

"Yes," Henry said, frowning. "She said she was too tired and jet-lagged. Her father’s place was near the airport, so she asked me to drop her off."

Jean’s brows furrowed. "Then why would she go out again? She was clearly exhausted."

Henry looked confused too. "That’s what I’ve been wondering. She barely had the strength to sit through the flight. I even offered to help her get inside."

Jean slowly sat back down, her heart thudding. "The accident... it happened just five miles from her house."

"Exactly," Henry said, voice low. "It’s like she barely left before it happened. Why would she go out again when she said she needed rest?"

Logan’s jaw clenched, the tension in his shoulders visible. "Someone made her leave."

Henry looked up at him, startled. "You think it wasn’t an accident?"

Jean’s voice was barely above a whisper. "She called us, Henry. Several times. She was trying to tell us something."

Logan ran a hand down his face, already pulling out his phone. "We need to find out what happened after she entered that house."

Jean nodded, the same chill curling in her chest. "Something’s not adding up."

They had all been so caught up in the aftermath... but now, the pieces were beginning to rearrange.

Something terrible had happened to Emma Adams.

And it wasn’t just a car crash.

"Can we trust your uncle?" Logan asked.

Jean didn’t know what to say. Right now, it’s hard to say if she knows anything about her family.