“Prison?” she whispered. “No. No, I can’t go to prison. I won’t survive in there.”

“You helped your father,” I said, stepping closer to her. “You knew what they were doing to me.”

“Mark told me it was just a technicality!” Gillian cried, her voice rising to a sharp shriek.

“He said the money belonged to us anyway. He said Abigail wanted it this way.”

“Abigail wanted me to have the estate,” I said. “And you helped him try to lock me in an asylum.”

Gillian shook her head violently, her damp blonde hair sticking to her forehead.

“I have proof,” she stammered, her fingers frantically unzipping her purse.

“Proof of what, Gillian?” Ana asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Mark,” Gillian said, pulling out a sleek gold smartphone with a cracked screen. “He made me do things, but I kept records.”

She held the phone out toward me with a trembling, dirty hand.

“What is on that phone?” I asked, refusing to touch it yet.

“The recordings,” Gillian whispered, tears streaming down her face. “The unedited ones.”

“The ones from the night of the physical assault?” Ana asked, taking a step closer.