“I went into his office myself,” Evelyn said. “I begged him to sign the waiver for Helen.”

“What did he do?”

“He didn’t even look up from his papers,” she said. “He just told me that if I admitted her, I would be fired, and she would be arrested for trespassing.”

My stomach turned.

“Did you get his name?” I asked.

Evelyn reached for a small drawer in the side table next to her.

She pulled out a worn, black-bound ledger.

“I kept my own logs back then,” she said. “Because I knew one day, someone would come asking.”

She opened the book, the pages yellowed and brittle.

She flipped through them until she reached a page marked with a red tab.

“Here,” she said, pointing a finger to a line of tight, neat handwriting.

I leaned over to look.

The entry was dated October 14, 1987.

*Patient: Helen Vance. Denied entry per administrative directive.*

Underneath, in the same neat hand, was a name written in brackets.

My phone suddenly buzzed in my pocket, the vibration loud in the quiet room.