“You know a lot about dosages,” I said, tilting the phone slightly so the microphone faced him. “Like the dosage for the girl at the clinic.”

Nathan’s jaw tightened.

The muscle beneath his right cheek twitched.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Your mother just told you,” I said. “You changed the charts. You hid the real records of the trial.”

Nathan looked down at the folder in his hand, then back up at me.

He took another step forward.

I did not step back.

“She has dementia,” Nathan said, his voice returning to that smooth, patronizing tone he used when he wanted to tell me I was being hysterical. “She confuses past events with stories she reads. You know how her mind is.”

“She isn’t confusing this,” I said. “She was trying to protect you. And you’ve been keeping her drugged too, haven’t you?”

Nathan was silent for a moment.

The only sound in the house was the quiet hum of the central heating system.

“Her cognitive decline is severe,” Nathan said. “The medication manages her agitation.”