"What are you searching for now? What are you pretending for?" A faint, bitter mockery laced her raspy voice. "Didn't you already decide that I was the murderer?"
Her questions caused a sudden flicker of discomfort to cross Michael's face.
Turning his back to her, he pulled a freshly pressed dress shirt from the hanger and put it on.
"Are you questioning me?" His tone sounded flat, yet carried an undeniable authority. "What right do you have to question me?"
"Then what right do you have to say you ever loved me?" Evelyn's voice was soft, yet dripping with obvious sarcasm. "You never had a single ounce of trust in me, not five years ago, and certainly not now. How cheap is your love, Michael Thorn?"
Slowly buttoning up his shirt, Michael glanced at her coldly. "I gave you my trust once before. But tell me, why would a dying person spend her final breath framing you for no reason?"
