Part 2
“Don’t trust Jason.”
The words were so faint I almost thought fear had invented them.
I leaned closer, my breath catching somewhere between a gasp and a prayer. Ethan Thornton’s eyes were open—only barely—but open. Dark lashes trembled against skin too pale for a living man’s face. His lips parted again, but no sound came out.
“Ethan?” I whispered.
His gaze shifted toward me.
Not fully. Not clearly. But enough.
Enough to tell me that somewhere behind that still body, behind nine months of silence, Ethan Thornton was still there.
My fingers shook as I reached for the call button beside his bed.
Before I could press it, his hand moved.
Not much. Just two fingers curling weakly against the sheet.
No.
I froze.
