“That was my mother’s book first,” she said softly. “She used it to keep track of the farm accounts. Arthur took it.”

“Your husband?”

She nodded.

“Arthur was a surgeon,” she said, her eyes staring at a spot on the carpet. “Just like Nathan. He liked things neat. He liked order.”

“The ledger says you were showing signs of resistance,” I said. “It says the dosage was increased to maintain compliance.”

Eleanor let out a dry, rattling laugh that turned into a cough.

“He called it my therapy,” she said. “When I spoke out of turn. When I complained about the bruises.”

“Arthur did that to you?”

“Arthur did it first,” she said.

She turned her head to look at me, her eyes suddenly sharp and clear.

“But Nathan learned well,” she whispered. “He watched his father do it to me for years.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Nathan watched?”

“He was just a boy,” she said. “He would hide in the closet. He would watch through the slats of the door.”

She reached out and touched my hand.