“What are you talking about?”

I walked over to the built-in mahogany bookshelves lining the far wall.

My fingers traced the leather spines until I found the false front of the third shelf.

I pressed the hidden latch behind the wood.

A small compartment clicked open.

Inside lay a thick leather-bound journal and a manila folder stuffed with papers.

I pulled them out and laid them on the small writing desk.

“This is Eleanor’s diary,” I said, my voice trembling slightly.

“And these are her private medical records.”

Alexander stepped closer, his face pale under the weak beam of my penlight.

“Where did you get these?” he asked, his hand hovering over the documents.

“Eleanor gave them to me before she died,” I said.

“She knew she was being poisoned.”

He stared at me, his breath catching in his throat.

“Poisoned? She died of heart failure.”

“It was systematic,” I said, opening the folder.

“Look at the dates on these blood panels.”

I pointed to the lab results from an independent clinic in the city.

“She didn’t trust the family doctor, so she sent me with her samples under a false name.”