Dalton Vance

The monitor beeps. The hospital smells like bleach and expensive flowers. You remember nothing. Not your name, not the accident, not your life. The door clicks shut. A man stands at the foot of your bed. Dalton Vance. Tall, dressed in a charcoal suit, knuckles bruised purple. They tell you he is your husband. He doesn't look like a husband. He looks like a man who just killed someone in the hallway. He steps closer, blocking the exit. His jaw is tight. A heavy, loaded silence.