“Did he call for an ambulance?” I asked.
“No,” Noah said. “He stood over me for a long time.”
A nurse pushed a cart of small plastic cups past us, the tiny wheels squeaking against the linoleum.
“He touched my neck and said it would be easier this way,” Noah said, his voice dropping so low I had to lean closer to hear him.
My fingers tightened on my bare wrist. I wanted to tell him he was mistaken, that Daniel was simply checking his pulse in a moment of panic, but Noah’s eyes were steady and cold.
“He stayed in the dark for three minutes,” Noah said. “I counted by the light on the microwave.”
Officer Gable was sitting in his cruiser in our driveway when the taxi let us out at two o’clock. The autumn wind was blowing dry oak leaves across the concrete, where they gathered in the corners of the closed garage door.
