His skin was deeply flushed, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.

Mara pressed the damp cloth to his brow, but his eyes remained closed, his jaw clenched tight in pain.

I turned back to the desk, my hands shaking as I shuffled through the medical records.

The chemical names stared back at me in neat, typed columns.

“Mara, look at these dates again,” I said, pointing to the pages.

She wiped her hands on her apron and leaned over my shoulder, squinting in the dim lamplight.

“These are the weekly records from the private clinic,” I murmured. “Look at the chemical compound listed here.”

I pointed to a recurring name: *Thallium sulfate solution*.

“My mother was supposed to be receiving chemotherapy,” I said.

“I remember her hair falling out,” Mara whispered, her eyes widening. “She was so weak, Lena. We all thought it was the cancer.”

“But look at the dosages,” I said. “They increased every single Tuesday.”

I turned the page, showing her the corresponding billing logs.

“These payments weren’t for medical care,” I said. “They were for the chemicals themselves, authorized by my father’s accountant.”