“I called him,” Graham said. “I told him I needed him urgently. He would not have been there if it were not for me.”
For a moment, I could not breathe.
“You think you caused his d3ath.”
“I did,” he said. “Maybe not directly. But if I had not called, he would still be alive.”
I studied him carefully. The guilt in his face was real, deep, and long-standing.
“No,” I said slowly. “The man who chose to drive drunk caused Malcolm’s d3ath. Not you.”
“But…”
“You asked your friend for help,” I continued. “That is what people do. Malcolm chose to come. That was his decision.”
Graham broke down then, and I held him. Still, something in me felt unsettled, as if there was more he was not saying.
In the days that followed, he seemed lighter, as though confessing had eased a burden.
But something else changed, too.
He began leaving the house for hours at a time. When I asked where he had been, his answers were vague.
One evening, I noticed the faint scent of antiseptic on his clothes.
“Have you been to the hospital?” I asked.
He hesitated. “Just briefly. Nothing important.”
