“She is getting worse,” I said, my heart hammering. “And those journals. What did she do to you?”

Nathan’s eyes narrowed.

For a second, his mask slipped, and I saw a flash of raw, ugly resentment.

“She did what she had to do,” he said. “To make me strong.”

“She kept you in the dark,” I said, remembering the journal entry. “She locked you away.”

Nathan let out a short, dry laugh.

“You think you understand my childhood because you read a few pages of a diary?” he asked.

“I understand that you are repeating it,” I said.

He grabbed my arm.

His grip was firm, not painful, but completely unyielding.

“Listen to me,” he whispered, his face inches from mine. “Eleanor needs to be in this house.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because she is remembering,” he said.

“She is losing her mind, Nathan.”

“No, she is uncovering it,” he said. “The dementia is stripping away the filters. The lies she told herself.”

He let go of my arm and walked to the window.

He looked out into the blackness of the backyard.