“Phone,” he whispered.
Madison went still.
My mother made a sound, sharp and warning.
“Enough,” she snapped. “This is cruel. That child is half-conscious, and you’re all standing here interrogating him like—”
“Like a victim?” Detective Harris said.
My mother flinched.
The detective turned to one of the uniformed officers by the door.
“Take Ms. Walker’s phone.”
Madison clutched her purse to her chest. “You can’t do that.”
The officer stepped closer.
Madison backed into the wall. “I said you can’t do that!”
“Madison,” I said.
She looked at me then, and for the first time in my life, I saw pure hatred on my sister’s face without the mask she usually wore over it.
Not jealousy.
Not resentment.
Hatred.
“You always got everything,” she hissed.
I stared at her.
“My son is dying in a hospital bed.”
“And still you make it about you,” she spat.
