“Did anyone see you?” I asked, stepping out of the elevator.

“No,” he said. “The street is quiet. The rain is heavy enough to cover any noise.”

I walked down the long corridor toward Sam’s room.

“Leo, I just got a text,” I said. “An anonymous text with a photo of Josephine’s handwriting.”

There was a brief silence on the line.

“What did it say?” he asked.

“She wrote about me,” I said. “She wrote that I was unstable. It looked like a diary entry.”

“I’m in her office now,” Leo said. “Her mahogany desk is right in front of me.”

I heard the sound of metal clicking.

“The drawers are locked,” he said.

“Can you open them?” I asked.

“I have my pocket knife,” Leo said. “And a small pry bar from my truck.”

I reached Sam’s room and pushed the heavy wooden door open.

The room was dimly lit.

Sam was sleeping in his metal crib, his small chest rising and falling.

A thin plastic tube was taped to the back of his tiny hand.

“Be careful, Leo,” I whispered, sitting in the vinyl chair beside the crib.