The room felt suddenly very small, cold, and crowded.

“She’s sleeping,” he said, walking toward the bed.

He looked down at his mother, then turned his gaze back to me.

“You look pale,” he said.

“I’m just tired,” I replied.

I tried to step past him, but he shifted his weight, blocking my path to the door.

“Why is the closet door open?” he asked.

I looked at the closet, my stomach dropping.

I had left the floorboard slightly askew, and the rug was bunched up.

“I was looking for an extra blanket for her,” I lied.

Nathan did not move.

He stared at me, his blue eyes cold and analytical, the way he looked at patients before surgery.

“You’re lying to me,” he said softly.

He reached out and grabbed my wrist.

His grip was firm, not painful yet, but unbreakable.

“Nathan, let go,” I said, trying to pull away. “You’re hurting me.”

“What did you find?” he asked, ignoring my plea.

He looked down at the floor by my feet.

A small piece of the torn medical file had fallen onto the rug.