“The clinic is in Astoria,” I said, putting the car in gear. “St. Jude’s Care Home.”

“Marcus knows about it?” Alexander asked, looking out the passenger window into the wet darkness of the street.

“He shouldn’t,” I said. “I paid the bills from a private account I set up years ago. But if they are in my primary email, they have the monthly receipts.”

The drive to Astoria took fifteen minutes through the slick, crowded streets of Queens.

My hands gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white under the streetlights.

We pulled up to the low brick building of the care home.

A neon sign over the glass doors flickered in the rain, casting a pale pink glow on the wet pavement.

“Stay in the car,” I said. “If they see you, it’s over.”

“I am coming with you,” Alexander said, his voice quiet and firm. “We do not have time to argue.”

We walked quickly through the automatic doors.

The lobby smelled of bleach, boiled cabbage, and old floral perfume.

At the front desk, a night nurse named Evelyn looked up from her computer monitor.