The air in the grand hallway was thick with the scent of old wood and the approaching storm outside.

I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the cold plastic of the burner phone.

I pulled it out just enough to see the screen.

The screen lit up, a single notification glowing in the darkness of the hallway.

It was an unread text message.

The text was from an unsaved number.

“The night shift nurse confirmed the second dose is administered. He will remain under through the morning vote.”

My thumb trembled against the glass screen as the light faded, leaving me in the dark corridor.

I slipped the phone back into my cardigan pocket and pressed my hand against the hard edge of the envelope containing the medical files.

I could hear the slow, rhythmic thump of Vivian’s cane ahead of me.

I followed the sound past the towering oil portraits of dead Thornton ancestors, their painted eyes tracking my movement.

At the end of the gallery, a heavy mahogany door stood slightly ajar, spilling a warm, amber light onto the Persian rug.