Just after getting divorced after twelve years, I signed on as the live-in caregiver for a paralyzed company president at $35,000 a month — and walked straight into a house where his own family feared his recovery.

I read it through a second time, the paper balanced on my knee.

The company was Prescott Ridge Holdings. Warren's name still sat at the top as founder. But the ownership percentages had moved.

Before the accident, Warren held eighty-two percent. The revised version showed fifty-one — the rest signed over to something called the TC Family Trust.

"What's the TC Family Trust?" I asked.

"Trevor and Colleen," Warren said. "Their initials."

I looked up. "They filed this while you were in the hospital."

"Three weeks after the accident. I was on enough medication that I couldn't get through a paragraph without losing my place." He paused. "I didn't catch it until my accountant flagged a strange dividend payment four months later. By then the filing was already notarized and sitting in the record."

"Did you go to Trevor about it?"

"I tried." His jaw flexed. "He told me I'd signed it. Said I'd agreed before the accident to restructure everything for tax reasons. He had a document with my signature on it."

"Did you sign it?"

"I don't know." He said it slow, picking each word up carefully. "That's the honest answer. I was under a lot of pressure in those weeks. There were meetings I barely remember sitting through. But I read that agreement again last month, and the wording — that's not language I'd ever have approved. Not phrased like that."

I folded it and handed it back. "Why are you telling me any of this?"

"Because you're the only person under this roof who's got no reason to lie to me."

That settled somewhere deep and stayed there.

"Warren. I've been here two days."

"I know. But you heard Colleen this morning, and you told me exactly what came out of her mouth. My last caregiver quit after three weeks and never gave a reason. The one before him got let go after a month. Nobody ever explained that to me either." He turned the document over in his hands. "I think they watched those two. Tested them. Waiting to see who could be steered."

"And the ones who couldn't be steered?"

"Stopped showing up."

The room was dead quiet.

"What do you need from me?" I asked.

"Nothing dramatic. Keep doing the job exactly like you've been doing it. Be friendly with Trevor. Be polite to Colleen. Don't give either of them a reason to look at you twice." He slid the document back into the drawer and pushed it shut. "And if you hear anything else — anything — you bring it to me before you bring it to anyone else in this house."

I nodded slowly.

"One more thing." He reached under the blanket across his lap and pulled out a small envelope. Inside was a business card. A name — Katherine Boyd, Attorney at Law — and a phone number written under it in ink.

"If something happens to me before this is settled — if I have a sudden setback, if my condition suddenly gets worse and no doctor can tell you why — you call that number."

My hand went still on the card. "What do you mean, worse for no reason?"

Warren looked right at me. "My last blood panel came back showing elevated sedative levels. I hadn't been prescribed any sedatives."

I stared at him. He didn't add anything. He didn't have to.

I put the card in my pocket and told him goodnight.

In the hallway I passed Trevor coming out of the kitchen with a glass of water. He gave me an easy, warm smile, the kind that isn't asking for anything.

"Long day?" he said.

"Still settling in. Learning the routine."

"You'll get the hang of it." He lifted the glass an inch. "Warren's a handful. Don't let him grind you down."