It was bound in dark blue vinyl with a heavy brass clasp.

I pulled it out and wiped the dust from the cover.

There was no label on the front.

I popped the clasp and flipped the book open.

The first few pages were covered in neat, handwritten columns.

Each page was headed with the words: *Bellamy Group – Special Disbursements*.

My eyes scanned down the columns of figures.

Every month, for the last ten years, a sum of twelve thousand dollars had been paid out.

The payee was always the same.

*The Whispering Pines Sanctuary.*

I had heard of that place.

It was a highly private, high-security medical facility built into the cliffs on the frozen northern edge of the city.

People called it an asylum, though the owners insisted it was a premier recovery center for the wealthy.

I turned the page, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Below the payment figures was a list of patient reference numbers.

Next to the number *404*, there was a handwritten note in red ink.

My breath caught in my throat.

I knew that handwriting.