“You don’t understand, Mother,” Helen said. “If the police get into that house, everything we built is gone.”

“You mean everything you stole,” Evelyn replied.

She reached inside her heavy wax-cloth coat.

She pulled out a thick, clear plastic envelope, sealed tightly against the weather.

Inside was a stack of yellowed papers, the ink slightly faded but perfectly legible under the car’s headlights.

“What is that?” Arthur asked, his eyes widening.

Evelyn stepped closer to him, holding the plastic envelope just inches from his face.

“These are the certified copies of the admission records from the Oakridge Sanitarium,” Evelyn said.

The wind whipped a strand of gray hair across her face, but she did not blink.

“Dated November twelfth, 1994,” she added.

Helen went completely pale, her mouth opening slightly.

“You burned those,” Helen whispered. “We saw the ashes in the fireplace.”

“You saw the copies I wanted you to see,” Evelyn said.

She tapped the plastic folder with a dry, spotted finger.

“This contains the original signatures of two doctors who never existed,” Evelyn said.

“And your signatures, Helen. Yours and Arthur’s.”