A handwritten note was paperclipped to the final page of the October log.

*Dosage to be increased upon transition to the Maine estate. J.W.*

J.W. Julian Whitmore.

Julian was signing off on the slow destruction of his own twin brother.

And my father had just tried to hand me over to the people running this facility.

I stared at the steering wheel, anger replacing the cold fear in my chest.

My father had called them because he thought I was losing my mind.

He thought he was saving me from an obsession that would destroy me.

But he had almost sealed Alexander’s death warrant, and my own.

I picked up my phone and dialed his private number.

It rang three times before he answered.

“Claire?” his voice sounded thin, exhausted. “Where are you? The clinic director called. They said you ran.”

“Why did you do it, Dad?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“They are powerful men, Claire,” he whispered. “You don’t understand what you are dealing with. You are going to get yourself killed.”