She walked inside and closed the heavy oak door behind her, the latch clicking into place.

I stood up from my desk and stepped between her and Maisie’s crib.

“How did you get past the front desk, Marjorie?” I asked.

“The Hartwell name doesn’t frighten everyone,” she said, her voice smooth and entirely devoid of warmth.

She laid the envelope on the mahogany side table by my armchair.

“Nolan is doing what he must,” she said, smoothing the lapel of her coat. “And I am here to ensure you do what is sensible.”

I looked down at the paper. “What is that?”

“Your medical records,” Marjorie said, a thin, tight smile touching her lips.

“My medical records are with my obstetrician,” I said. “I am recovering perfectly well.”

“Not according to these,” she replied.

She stepped closer, the heavy scent of her expensive French perfume filling the small space.

“These are the records from the private clinic in West Chester,” she said.

“I have never set foot in West Chester,” I said.

“The paperwork says otherwise,” Marjorie said. “It details a history of severe postpartum depression, erratic behavior, and suicidal ideation.”