I held up the manila folder, letting the light from her porch illuminate the Westside Clinic logo.

“My name is Emily,” I said. “I’m Helen Vance’s daughter.”

She stared at the folder, then her eyes drifted past me to my car, where Lucas and Mason sat in the backseat.

Her face paled, and she stepped back into the shadows of the hallway.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” she whispered, her hand trembling on the doorknob.

“They are still watching me.”

Before I could speak, a black SUV pulled up slowly across the street, its headlights turning off.

The woman’s hand shot out, cold and thin as a branch, and gripped my wrist.

“Get inside,” she hissed, her voice barely a breath.

I looked back at the station wagon.

Lucas was watching me through the glass, his face pale, his hand resting on Mason’s shoulder.

I nodded at him, signaling for them to stay down, then stepped over the threshold.

The woman slammed the heavy wooden door shut and threw three separate deadbolts.

The hallway was dark, smelling of damp wool and old newspapers.