Tastes Like Damn Chocolate
Sandy’s suspicion coiled tighter, a knot in her gut that had been there since their father’s sudden death two months ago.
“She’s stable,” Sandy said. “The neuro team is handling it. We’re good.”
The tension in the room thickened, pressing against the walls like the weight of unsaid words. Smith glanced at the monitors then back at Sandy, his expression shifting from politeto something cooler, more insistent.
“Ms. Toriaga,” he said quietly, “can you step aside so I can do my job?”
Sandy smiled coldly, and thin, without a trace of warmth. “No.”
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