“Mrs. Gable, I suggest you let us in,” Vance said in a calm, firm voice. “Otherwise, I will call for a warrant, and we will do this with sirens.”

She hesitated, her keys jingling in her hand.

She looked at me, then at the sleeping baby in Claire’s arms.

“I’m just an employee,” she whispered.

“Then let us do our job,” Vance said.

She stepped aside, allowing us into the warm, sterile-smelling lobby.

The air was thick with the scent of disinfectant and old food.

“Which room?” I asked.

Mrs. Gable pointed down the left corridor.

“Room 104,” she said, her voice shaking. “But she doesn’t get many visitors.”

“Who visits her?” I asked.

“Only the man who pays the bills,” she said. “He comes once a month.”

“Richard Mitchell,” I said.

She nodded slowly.

“He told us she had severe dementia,” Mrs. Gable said. “He said she shouldn’t have any contact with the outside world for her own safety.”

I felt a cold rage washing over me.

I walked down the hallway, my sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor.