My phone, which had been sitting in my purse on the small bedside table, began to buzz.

I reached over, my arm stiff from the IV line, and pulled the bag toward me.

I fished out the small silver phone.

The screen showed an unknown number.

I hesitated, then pressed the button and held it to my ear.

“Hello?” I said.

“Claire Bennett?” a man’s voice asked.

It was not Victor Sterling’s voice.

This voice was younger, sharper, and had the hurried tone of someone speaking from a crowded room.

“Yes,” I said. “Who is this?”

“My name is Marcus Vance,” the man said.

“I’m a reporter with the *Oregonian Daily*.”

“I wanted to ask you a few questions about your employment with the Whitmore family.”

My hand began to tremble, the silver phone cold against my cheek.

“I have nothing to say,” I whispered.

“We have copies of some very interesting medical filings from a clinic in Portland,” the reporter continued.

“They bear your signature from twelve years ago.”

“Is it true that you were paid three hundred thousand dollars to carry—”