He slid the key into the lock, turned it, and pulled the drawer wide open.

The shoebox sat inside, the lid slightly askew from my rushed attempt to hide it.

He reached in and touched the cardboard lid with his fingertips.

“You read the journals,” he said.

It was a flat statement.

“What is this, Nathan?” I asked, my voice rising.

“It is none of your business,” he replied.

“None of my business?” I stepped closer to him. “This is our house. That is our daughter upstairs.”

“Lily has nothing to do with this,” he said.

“Your mother was in her room last night,” I said. “She was whispering to her. She was terrified.”

Nathan turned to face me.

The grey light from the window illuminated the sharp lines of his jaw.

“Eleanor is confused,” he said. “She is sick.”

“She belongs in a care facility,” I said. “A real one. With professional staff.”

“No,” Nathan said.

He stepped toward me, closing the distance between us.

I could smell the sterile scent of hospital soap on his skin.

“She stays here,” he said.