“The girl from the clinic,” Eleanor whispered.

“Yes,” Nathan said. “The one who died during the trial.”

My breath caught in my throat.

A clinical trial.

“He said it was an accident,” Eleanor said. “He said the dosage was correct.”

“But you changed the charts,” Nathan said. “You hid the real records.”

“I had to protect him,” she whimpered. “I had to protect you.”

“Where are they?” Nathan asked.

His voice had lost its gentle tone.

It was sharp now.

It was demanding.

“In the wall,” Eleanor cried softly. “Behind the drawer.”

I heard the sound of wood scraping.

Nathan was pulling out Lily’s built-in dresser drawers.

I peeked around the doorframe.

Eleanor was sitting on the edge of Lily’s small white bed.

Lily was still asleep, her back turned to them, her pink blanket pulled up to her chin.

She did not stir.

She did not even twitch.

I looked at the small plastic cup on Lily’s nightstand.

There was a sticky residue of pink liquid at the bottom.

My throat went dry.

Nathan had given her something to keep her asleep