“My name is Emily,” I said. “A nurse at the metropolitan hospital gave me your address.”

Evelyn’s brow furrowed, and she clutched her sweater tighter.

“I’m retired,” she said. “I don’t do consultations.”

“It’s not about medicine,” I said quickly, stepping closer to the screen door. “It’s about Helen. Helen Vance.”

The woman froze.

The hand holding her tea mug trembled slightly.

“Helen,” she whispered.

“She was turned away from the Westside Clinic,” I said. “In October of 1987.”

Evelyn looked past me, scanning the empty, rainy road.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

“Please,” I said. “My husband is using his family’s power to take my children. I need to know what happened that night.”

She stared at me for a long time, her eyes searching my face.

She must have seen the desperation in my eyes, or perhaps she saw a resemblance to Helen.

Slowly, she unlatched the screen door and pushed it open.

“Come inside out of the rain,” she said.

The living room smelled of lavender and old paper.

A small radiator clanked in the corner, throwing off a dry, dusty heat.