Chapter 142 Five Minutes
Elena: POV
The fluorescent lights had buzzed above me like wasps trapped in a jar. I had sat in that plastic chair outside Room 407, staring at the closed door. My hands had been folded in my lap. Perfectly still. There had been something dark crusted under my fingernails. Blood. Mom's blood.
Five minutes.
That was all it had been. Five minutes in the bathroom. Five minutes to splash cold water on my face. To breathe. To tell myself that everything would be okay. That Mom would get better. That the chemo would work this time.
Five minutes.
And when I had come back, she had been dying.
Why had I left?
The question had circled in my mind like a vulture. Over and over. Relentless.
Why had I picked that moment? Why couldn't I have waited? Why couldn't I have just stayed?
I had been sitting by her bedside for hours. Holding her hand. Listening to the steady beep of the heart monitor. She had been sleeping peacefully. The morphine pump had been humming quietly in the corner. Everything had been fine.
And I had needed to pee.
Such a stupid, mundane thing. Such a human thing.
I should have held it. I should have stayed.
But I hadn't. I had stood up. Kissed her forehead. Whispered, "I'll be right back, Mom."
And I had left.
Five minutes.
When I had come back, the monitors had been screaming. Her lips had been blue. The nurse had been frantically pressing the code blue button.
"What happened?" I had screamed. "What happened? She was fine! She was fine!"
But she hadn't been fine.
Someone had changed the morphine pump. Cranked it up to twenty-five milligrams per hour. Enough to stop a heart. Enough to kill.
If I had been there...
My nails had dug into my palms. Drew blood. I hadn't noticed.
If I had stayed. If I had just stayed in the room. If I hadn't been so selfish—
"Mrs. Sterling?"
I had looked up. A nurse had stood in front of me. Young. Sympathetic. Holding a clipboard.
"I'm so sorry for your loss," she had said softly. "I know this is a difficult time, but we need you to sign some paperwork. For the—for your mother's remains."
Remains.
Such a clinical word. Like Mom—who had raised me alone, who had worked three jobs to put food on the table, who had held me through every nightmare—had been nothing more than biological waste now.
I had taken the clipboard. Signed where she had pointed. My handwriting had looked like a stranger's. Shaky. Illegible.
"Thank you," the nurse had said. She had hesitated. "I'm so sorry this happened. We're still investigating how the morphine dosage was changed."
I had looked up at her, my mind still reeling. "She said something. During the resuscitation. She said Julian's name."
The nurse had nodded sadly. "Yes, I heard that too. She seemed to be trying very hard to tell you something important."
"She said he sent someone," I had continued, my voice barely a whisper. "Julian sent someone."
The nurse's expression had grown troubled. "We've already contacted security about the dosage tampering. Someone unauthorized definitely entered this room while you were away."
Julian had sent someone.
Julian.
"Are you alright?" The nurse had reached out to steady me.
I had jerked away. "I'm fine."
I hadn't been fine.
Nothing would ever be fine again.
"If you need anything—"
"I said I'm fine." My voice had come out sharp. Harsh. The nurse had flinched.
"Of course. I'll—I'll give you some privacy."
She had left. I had been alone again.
Julian had sent someone.
Why would Mom say that?
Unless...
No. No, it couldn't be.
But the thought had already taken root. Burrowing deep into my mind like a parasite.
He had done this.
He had killed her.
My hands had started to shake. I had pressed them against my thighs. Tried to breathe.
If I had been there. If I had stayed in the room. I would have seen who came in. I could have stopped them. I could have saved her.
This had been my fault.
My fault.
I had killed her.
My vision had blurred. The corridor had swum. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't—
No.
I had forced myself to inhale. Exhale. Focus.
Not my fault. Julian's fault.
He had sent someone. Mom had said so.
He had killed her.
The rage had come then. Hot and sharp and overwhelming. It had burned away the guilt. The self-blame. Left only hate.
My phone had been in my pocket. I had pulled it out. Stared at the screen.
Julian's name had been right there. In my contacts. In my recent calls. In my messages.
My finger had hovered over his number.
I should call him. I should make him admit what he did.
I should hear him lie to my face.
I had pressed dial.
It had rung once. Twice. Three times.
He was probably in a meeting. Probably closing some deal. Probably didn't even remember that my mother existed.
Had existed.
Four rings. Five.
Then his voice. Sharp. Clipped. "Elena? What's wrong?"
Of course he had known something was wrong. I never called him. Not anymore.
"My mom." My voice had come out flat. Dead. "Someone killed my mom."
Silence. Then: "What?"
"She's dead, Julian." I had been surprised by how calm I had sounded. How empty. "Someone tampered with her morphine pump. Someone came into her room while I was gone and killed her."
"Elena, I—" He had sounded shocked. Genuinely shocked. "I'm so sorry. When did this happen? Are you—"
"Was it you?"
The question had hung in the air. Heavy. Poisonous.
"What?" His voice had changed. Gone hard. Defensive. "Elena, what are you talking about?"
"She said your name, Julian." I had been crying now. I hadn't remembered when I had started. "My mom is dead and the last thing she said was your name. What am I supposed to think?"
"Elena, I swear I didn't—" His voice had been desperate. "I would never hurt Josephine. You have to believe me."
"I don't know what to believe anymore." My voice had cracked. "I don't know anything anymore."
I had asked again, my voice hoarse. "Did you kill my mother?"
"Jesus Christ, Elena, no!" He had sounded angry now. Furious. "I'm in Singapore. I've been in meetings all day. I didn't even know Josephine was in the hospital. How could I—"
"You always have an excuse." I had laughed. It had been a horrible sound. Brittle and broken. "You always have an alibi."
"Because I didn't do anything!" His voice had risen. I could hear him moving. Hear doors slamming in the background. "Elena, listen to me. I swear on everything I have, I didn't hurt Josephine. I would never—"
"I confronted him again, my voice hoarse from crying: 'She said your name, Julian. So either you did it, or...'"
I stopped, then who could it be if it wasn't him? Was it Victoria? But wasn't she locked up in a psychiatric hospital?
"I'm coming home," Julian had said. His voice had been tight. Controlled. Which had meant he was barely holding it together. "I'm leaving right now. Don't go anywhere. Stay at the hospital. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Don't bother." I had wiped my face with the back of my hand. Smeared Mom's blood across my cheek. "I don't want to see you."
"Elena—"
I had hung up.
Stared at the phone in my hand.
He had sounded shocked. Genuinely shocked.
But he always sounded convincing when he lied.