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.

Trevor was standing in the front hall when we came through the door. Not doing anything. No phone, no coffee, no pretense of having just walked in. Just standing there, watching the door open.

"Morning," I said.

"Where'd you go?" His voice was pleasant. His eyes weren't.

"I took Warren for a drive. Dr. Hartley mentioned fresh air and light movement—"

"Hartley would've told me."

"He mentioned it at the last visit. It's in my notes if you want to see them."

Trevor looked past me at Warren. "You could've told me you wanted to get out," he said. "I'd have taken you."

"Diane offered," Warren said. "Didn't want to eat into your morning."

"It's no trouble." Trevor smiled. "You're my brother. Nothing you need is trouble."

He said it warm. He said it looking dead at Warren, with the full weight of a man who wants badly to be believed.

Warren didn't say anything.

I moved to steer the wheelchair toward the hallway, and Trevor stepped aside — barely, just enough that I had to turn sideways to get past him.

That afternoon Colleen came to my room. Two knocks, and she opened the door before I answered. She stood in the frame with her arms crossed, scanning the room like she was taking inventory.

"I want to talk about Warren's routine," she said.

"Of course."

"He needs consistency. Anything that disrupts his schedule sets back his recovery." She looked right at me. "Unplanned outings are a disruption."

"Understood. I'll clear any future outings in advance."

"With Trevor," she said. "Clear them with Trevor."

"Of course."

She kept looking at me. Then her eyes went to the desk, where my medication log sat closed. "May I?" she said, already reaching.

I kept my voice even. "That's Warren's private medical record. I'd need his permission to share it."

Her hand stopped.

"I'm his family," she said.

"And I'm his caregiver. His records are his." I met her eyes. "I'm sure you understand."

The silence stretched out.

"You're awfully sure of yourself for someone who's been here under two weeks," she said.

"I'm very clear about my professional responsibilities."

"That's not the same thing."

She left without another word.

That night I heard them through the wall — Trevor and Colleen, voices low and fast, the kind of conversation that stops dead when a door opens. I couldn't make out the words. I didn't need to.

I texted Katherine Boyd from my personal phone: *They know something's different. How fast can the forensic review move?*

Her reply, eleven minutes later: *Analyst confirmed for Wednesday. Keep your head down until then.*

I set the phone face down on the nightstand.

In the morning, Warren's breakfast tray came up from the kitchen already made — something Colleen had never done once. She carried it up herself, set it on his table, and smiled at him.

"Thought I'd give Diane a break," she said. "You don't mind, do you?"

Warren looked at the tray. Then at her. "That's kind of you," he said.

After she left, he looked at me. I was already staring at the tray.