“What did you say?” I whispered.

“Margaret is alive,” Diane said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “She is in a quiet, private place. A place where they take care of her without the state getting involved and taking every last cent of her estate.”

“You put her in an unlicensed facility,” I said, a wave of horror washing over me. “You hid her away to exploit her.”

“She has severe dementia, Rachel. She doesn’t even know what day it is,” Diane said defensively. “We are keeping her safe. But the facility costs money. Cash money. If you shut down our access, if you tell anyone, they will kick her out on the street. Is that what you want? Do you want your grandmother to freeze on the street because of your pride?”

“You are lying to me,” I said, my tears finally hot against my cheeks.

“I am telling you the truth,” Diane said. “If you don’t call the front desk right now and tell them to let us up, your father is going to file a complaint with the military police. He’ll tell them you are mentally unstable, suffering from postpartum psychosis, and keeping his grandson hostage.”