“Yes.”
“What about her?”
“You tell me.”
He shook his head, amused now.
“Grandma always disliked her.”
“My former assistant?”
“She met her here once.”
“When?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Interesting.”
He stepped closer.
“Are you accusing me of something because an eighty-six-year-old woman said a name?”
“No.”
That answer bothered him more than an accusation would have.
I picked up my glass.
“I’m listening.”
That evening, Daniel and his mother made a performance of caring for Eleanor.
Fresh soup appeared.
Her pillows were changed.
Her room was aired out.
Daniel even carried in flowers.
I photographed the transformation.
Then, when Daniel went upstairs, I returned to the library.
Eleanor was awake.
“They know,” she whispered.
“They know I know something.”
“Call someone now.”
“I will.”
She looked frightened.
Not for herself.
“For you,” she said.
I sat beside her.
“Eleanor, I need you to tell me exactly what happened with the medication.”
She closed her eyes, gathering strength.
Her prescriptions had been altered several weeks earlier.
Pills disappeared from the organizer.
Others appeared that made her groggy.
Daniel’s mother began telling visitors Eleanor was confused.
The lawyer brought papers for signatures Eleanor refused to give.
Later, she discovered copies carrying signatures she had never made.
The physician whose name appeared on the incompetency petition had never entered the house.
Then Eleanor found the transfer documents.
She began hiding whatever she could.
Bank copies.
Drafts.
Medication notes.
Photographs.
The brass key.
“How did you get pictures of Daniel and Vanessa?” I asked.
“A friend sent them to me.”
I did not ask for another name.
I had promised myself I would use only what could be preserved and verified.
“What about the bruise?”
Eleanor looked toward the door.
“I tried to leave the room yesterday.
Daniel grabbed me when I lost my balance.”
