PART 11 – Sebastian Had Promised Answers, So I Asked Him to Stop Choosing the Order of My Questions and Tell Me What He Could Prove

I found Sebastian waiting near the hospital's administrative offices.

He was standing beside a window, looking down at the street.

When he saw me, he straightened.

"Dr. Miller."

"We need to talk."

He nodded.

We moved into a small room where we could speak without being interrupted.

I closed the door behind us.

Then I turned toward him.

"I've spoken with Sophie's mother."

He listened without comment.

"She says there is a connection involving Emily, and that you brought the photograph to bring the right people together."

Sebastian lowered his eyes briefly.

"That is part of it."

I shook my head.

"I need you to understand how this sounds from my side. You appeared at my home without warning, showed me a photograph connected to my dead daughter, and told me I needed to come with you. Since then, every answer has created three more questions."

"I understand."

"Then help me understand."

He sat down.

I remained standing for another moment before taking the chair opposite him.

The leather folder rested on the table.

I looked at it.

"Is everything you know in there?"

"No."

"Then what is?"

"The information I was asked to bring to you."

"By whom?"

He paused.

I felt the familiar frustration returning.

"Sebastian."

He looked at me.

"I don't want to hide things from you. But I also don't want to tell you something that turns out to be wrong."

"Then tell me what you know is true."

He opened the folder.

The photograph lay on top.

He moved it aside and looked through the papers beneath it.

I watched him carefully.

I had begun to understand that he was not simply withholding an answer to be cruel.

He seemed to believe that the order in which he presented the information mattered.

Perhaps it did.

But he was not the person who had lost Emily.

I was.

He placed a document on the table.

"This is part of the information that led to your name being brought into the situation."

I examined it.

I asked where it had come from.

He explained what he could.

I asked whether the information had been checked.

He answered as directly as he was able.

There were limits to what he knew, and I made him acknowledge them.

I wasn't going to let the presence of a leather folder turn uncertain information into something unquestionable.

When we had finished discussing the page, I looked at him.

"What does this tell you about Emily?"

He took a breath.

"It tells me that there are questions about her circumstances that haven't been fully addressed."

I stared at him.

"Which questions?"

He didn't answer at once.

I felt my hands tighten beneath the table.

"You're doing it again."

"I know."

"Then stop."

He looked at the photograph.

For the first time, he seemed uncertain about what to say next.

That made me pay closer attention.

He had arrived at my home with the confidence of a man carrying a message.

Now he was sitting across from me, studying a piece of paper as though he wished it could answer for him.

I realized I had been expecting him to possess the whole story.

He might not.

Perhaps he had been given a task without being given every answer.

That did not excuse the way he had brought me into it.

But it changed what I needed from him.

"Who should I speak with next?" I asked.

He raised his eyes.

"The people closest to what happened."

"Then arrange it."

He nodded.

I sat back.

I was tired of trying to extract every detail from someone who might not know it.

If the truth required several conversations, I would have them.

If it required looking at documents, I would look at them.

If it required admitting that I had misunderstood something about my own daughter, I would do that too.

But I needed the process to move forward.

I could not spend the rest of my life sitting in rooms with people who told me that the next answer would come later.

Sebastian closed the folder.

"I'll do what I can."

"Do more than that."

He looked at me.

"I will."

I didn't know whether I believed him.

I had learned to judge people by what they did rather than what they promised.

So I stood and gathered my things.

Before leaving, I looked at the photograph one more time.

"Can I keep a copy of this?"

Sebastian considered the request.

"I'll see what can be arranged."

I nodded.

I didn't press him further.

I had learned something important that morning.

I couldn't force the truth to arrive faster by becoming angry with everyone who stood between me and it.

But I could refuse to let the conversation drift.

I could ask direct questions.

I could insist on knowing which facts were confirmed and which were still uncertain.

And I could make sure that my own grief did not become a reason to believe something simply because I wanted it to be true.

I left the room and returned to the corridor.

The hospital was busy again.

A nurse was pushing a cart toward the treatment area.

Two doctors were discussing a patient's results.

A family stood near the elevators, speaking in low voices.

I passed them slowly.

I knew what it was to wait for news.

I knew what it was to hope for a sentence that might change everything.

I also knew that no sentence could restore the people I had lost.

If the truth about Emily was going to change my understanding of her life, I needed to hear it without expecting it to repair my own.

That was the only way I could face what came next.

Click here to continue reading: PART 12: I Returned to Sophie’s Room Before Leaving the Hospital, and the Sight of Her Small Hand Reminded Me What I Could Still Choose to Protect