It was a call from an unknown number.

I pressed the receiver to my ear.

“Rachel?” a voice whispered.

It was Claire.

“I’m here, Claire,” I said. “I saw the documents.”

“It’s worse than we thought,” Claire said.

The sound of highway wind rushed through her end of the line.

“I’m parked down the street from Greenaway Manor right now,” she said.

“It’s not a licensed medical facility, Rachel.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my heart dropping.

“It’s an assisted living home run out of a private residence,” Claire said.

“The owner is a woman named Martha who used to work with your mother at the clinic.”

The pieces of the puzzle began to lock into place.

My mother had been a registered nurse for thirty years.

She knew exactly how to navigate the system to keep an elderly patient off the state radar.

“Is Margaret really there?” I asked.

“I saw an old woman in a wheelchair by the front window,” Claire said.

“She looks like the photos you showed me of your grandmother.”

“But I can’t get closer without a warrant or a family member.”