Three days passed in a blur of antiseptic smells and hushed voices. I barely left the hospital, catching naps in the waiting room chairs and sipping cold coffee from vending machines. Hugo had been absent most of the time, citing "important surgeries" that couldn't wait. I wondered if those surgeries were as important as his father's recovery.

Richard's condition had stabilized initially, but something changed overnight. The morning nurse's face told me everything before she spoke.

"Mrs. Washington? Your father-in-law's condition has deteriorated significantly."

I followed her to Richard's room, my heart hammering against my ribs. The machines surrounding him beeped more frantically than before, their rhythm urgent and unsettling. His skin, visible around the burn dressings, had taken on a grayish tinge.

"What happened?" I demanded, reaching for his chart.

The nurse hesitated. "His temperature spiked overnight. We've started broader spectrum antibiotics, but..." She trailed off, her eyes darting to the door as Dr. Elena Martinez entered.

"Mrs. Morris," Elena said, her expression grave. "We need to discuss Mr. Washington's condition."

I knew Elena from my own medical days. She didn't mince words.

"His white cell count is through the roof," she continued, flipping through the chart. "We're seeing signs of systemic infection that doesn't match typical burn-related complications."

"Where's Hugo?" I asked, scanning the room as if he might materialize.

"Dr. Washington is in surgery," Elena replied, her tone carefully neutral. "We've paged him."

I watched as nurses moved around Richard's bed, adjusting IVs and checking monitors. Something wasn't right. The infection was too severe, too sudden.

"May I see his surgical notes?" I asked.

Elena hesitated, then nodded. "You're still listed as family."

I followed her to the nurses' station where she pulled up Richard's electronic chart on the computer. I scanned the surgical report from Thanksgiving night, my medical training kicking in despite years away from practice.

"Operating room inventory," I murmured, scrolling through the list. "Surgical sponge count..."

My finger froze on the screen. The numbers didn't match.

"There's a discrepancy," I said, pointing to the screen. "The count is off by one."

Elena leaned closer, her brow furrowing. "That's not possible. All sponges are accounted for before closure."

But the numbers didn't lie. One surgical sponge was missing from the inventory.

I was still staring at the screen when Catalina appeared in the hallway, her face pale and drawn. She was heading toward Richard's room when I intercepted her.

"Catalina," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "We need to talk."

She tried to step around me. "I'm busy, Mariah."

"You left something inside my father-in-law," I said quietly.

Her eyes widened, darting to the chart in my hands. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The sponge count doesn't match." I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "One is missing. And now he's dying from an infection that shouldn't exist."

Catalina's composure cracked. Her hands began to tremble, and she glanced frantically around the corridor.

"It was an accident," she whispered, tears filling her eyes. "I thought I got everything. The count was correct at the beginning of closure, but then Hugo was called away for an emergency consult, and I... I rushed..."

"You left surgical gauze inside him," I finished, horror washing over me.

Catalina's shoulders slumped as she nodded, a sob escaping her lips. "He was already critical. I didn't think..."

"You didn't think he'd die?" My voice rose despite my efforts to stay calm.

Before she could answer, alarms began blaring from Richard's room. We both turned to see nurses rushing inside, Elena shouting orders.

"Code blue! Crash cart!"

I ran to Richard's room, pushing past a stunned Catalina. Inside, medical staff swarmed around his bed, their movements urgent and precise.

"Septic shock," Elena announced grimly. "Blood pressure dropping fast."

I watched in helpless horror as they worked to save him. The machines screamed warnings, nurses called out vital signs, and Elena directed the resuscitation effort with calm authority.

But I knew. We all knew. It was too late.

Thirty minutes later, Elena called the time of death.

I stood frozen beside his bed, my hand clutching the rail as tears blurred my vision. Richard Washington—my father-in-law, the man who had welcomed me into his family with open arms—was gone. Killed not by the fireworks that injured him, but by medical malpractice. By a surgeon who wasn't qualified. By a system that had failed him.

With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and dialed Hugo's number.

"Mariah," he answered, his voice distracted. "I'm in the middle of something."

"Your father is dead," I said, my voice breaking. "He died from septic shock caused by surgical gauze left inside him during the operation."

The silence on the other end stretched for several seconds.

Then Hugo spoke, his words cold and clinical, as if discussing a stranger rather than his father.

"I'll handle it," he said, and hung up.

I stared at my phone, Hugo's words replaying in my mind like a broken record. "I'll handle it." Three cold, clinical words about his own father's death.

The hospital corridor seemed to spin around me as I leaned against the wall, trying to steady myself. Richard Washington—the man who had treated me like a daughter, who had told me stories about Hugo's childhood, who had shown more warmth to me than my own parents ever had—was gone. And Hugo couldn't even be bothered to sound sad.

I swallowed hard and dialed Hugo's number again.

"Mariah," he answered, irritation evident in his voice. "I told you I'd handle it."

"Your father is dead," I repeated, my voice stronger this time. "Richard Washington is dead."

There was a pause, then: "What are you talking about? My father is fine."

My heart stopped. "Hugo, Richard died thirty minutes ago from septic shock."

"No, Mariah." His voice hardened. "Your father died. The hospital called me directly."

The realization hit me like a physical blow. He thought my father had died.

"Hugo," I whispered, "my father is alive. It's your father who died."

Silence stretched between us, heavy and terrible.

"That's not possible," he finally said, but I could hear the doubt in his voice.

"It's true," I said, tears welling up again. "Catalina left surgical gauze inside him. He died from the infection."

I heard him breathe sharply. "Listen to me carefully, Mariah. This is what we're going to do."

We. As if we were still a team.

"There's a settlement agreement in my desk at home," Hugo continued, his voice shifting into professional mode. "In the bottom drawer, under the insurance papers. You need to sign it immediately."

"A settlement agreement?" I echoed, disbelief coloring my words.

"For your father's death," he clarified coldly. "To prevent any legal complications."

I closed my eyes, unable to process his callousness. "Hugo, my father is alive. Your father is dead."

"I know that now," he snapped. "But we still need to handle this properly. Catalina can't afford any scandals right now."

I ended the call without responding, my hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped the phone.

---

I returned to Richard's room one last time before they took his body to the morgue. The machines had been silenced, the tubes removed. He looked peaceful, almost as if he were sleeping.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered, touching his hand one final time. "This shouldn't have happened to you."

As I turned to leave, I noticed Catalina hovering in the doorway, her eyes red-rimmed but her posture stiff and defensive.

"Mariah," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

"But it did happen," I replied, my voice eerily calm. "And now he's gone."

I walked past her without another word, my mind suddenly clear about what I needed to do.

---

Back at home, I moved with quiet purpose through our bedroom to Hugo's study. The settlement agreement was exactly where he'd said it would be—a thick document with legal terminology that essentially promised silence in exchange for money.

I photographed every page with my phone, then replaced it exactly as I'd found it.

Next, I logged into the hospital's electronic records system using the access I still had from my days as a practicing physician. I downloaded copies of Richard's surgical notes, the inventory lists, and Catalina's operating logs.

"Hugo thinks he can cover this up," I murmured to myself as I saved the files to a secure cloud account. "But I won't let him."

I spent hours gathering evidence—medical records, staff schedules, even security footage from the operating room that showed Catalina's hands trembling during the procedure.

By dawn, I had assembled a damning case against both Hugo and Catalina.

---

The state medical board office was imposing—all glass and steel and serious-faced people in suits. I clutched my folder of evidence as I approached the reception desk.

"I need to file a report of medical malpractice," I said, my voice steady despite my exhaustion.

The receptionist directed me to a stern-looking woman with silver hair and reading glasses perched on her nose.

"Mrs. Morris," she said, studying my face. "What can I do for you?"

I placed my folder on her desk. "My father-in-law died because of surgical negligence," I said simply. "And the doctors responsible are trying to cover it up."

She opened the folder, her eyes widening slightly as she scanned the first page.

"These are serious allegations," she said carefully.

"They're true," I replied, meeting her gaze without flinching. "Every word."

As she continued reading through my evidence, I felt a strange sense of calm wash over me. For the first time since Richard's death, I was doing something that mattered.

"I'll need statements from the hospital administration as well," she said finally.

"I've already arranged that," I said, pulling out another set of documents. "Dr. Elena Martinez will be contacting you directly."

The woman's eyebrows rose slightly. "You've been thorough."

"I was once a doctor too," I reminded her gently. "Before I gave it all up for Hugo."

As I left the medical board offices, my phone buzzed with a text from Hugo: "Where are you? We need to discuss Catalina's birthday celebration tonight."

I stared at the message in disbelief. Richard's body was barely cold, and Hugo was planning a party?

Little did he know that by tomorrow, neither he nor Catalina would be celebrating anything ever again.