Near the middle of the book, the handwriting changed, becoming more hurried, the lines slanting downward.

I stopped on a page dated nine years ago, just before we met.

At the top of the page, a name was written in bold, heavy strokes: *Clara Vance.*

Beneath her name, there was a list of medications, dosages that seemed impossibly high, and a series of notes written in a hand that looked like Nathan’s, but wilder.

*Patient showing signs of resistance,* the note read. *Dosage increased to maintain compliance.*

A floorboard creaked directly above my head.

I froze, holding my breath, my eyes darting up to the dark ceiling joists.

The sound of footsteps moved slowly across the kitchen floor, right toward the pantry.

I pressed my back flat against the damp stone wall of the cellar stairs.

The leather ledger was cold against my bare chest, tucked deep under my sweater.

Above me, the pantry floorboards groaned again under a slow, dragging weight.

The latch on the pantry door clicked.

A narrow strip of yellow light cut across the darkness at the top of the stairs.