Chapter 42

Lyra’s mouth tightened. She stepped forward like a needle into a tense seam of cloth. “Nick, you can’t actually be buying that story, can you?” Nick Brown’s jaw worked. He was an intelligent, not a gullible man. “I’m in medicine too,” Lyra said, voice low. “A vascular foreign body isn’t something you just spot with the naked eye. You need a CT. If a chest scan had shown anything, someone would’ve called. There’s no reason to wait until now.” Across the room, Sloane’s composure flickered. She tried to explain, words tumbling out, earnest, thin but the air around her had already thickened. Conversations around the edges turned sharp, like wind against glass. Nick clenched his fists. Respect for Damon kept his temper in check, otherwise he wouldn’t be wasting breath. “Dr. Veyre,” he said, each syllable measured, “you owe my grandfather an apology. Say it, and we’ll drop this. Refuse, and don’t expect anyone here to shield you.” Sloane’s eyes darted to the old man. Robert had the slow, ste