“Take all the time you need, Claire,” he said, closing the door behind him.

I sat down at the small table, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I pulled the lid off the metal box.

Inside lay a thick manila envelope, sealed with red wax, and a stack of loose papers.

On top of the stack was a letter written in my mother’s elegant, sloping handwriting.

*For Claire,* it read. *In case they succeed in silencing me.*

I opened the envelope first, my fingers trembling as I pulled out a bundle of letters.

They were all addressed to my mother, but the envelopes had been crudely sliced open and resealed with clear tape.

They were from the Mayo Clinic and the neurological specialists in Boston.

I opened the first one, dated six months before my mother died.

*Dear Mrs. Hartwell,* the letter read. *We have attempted to contact you multiple times regarding your scheduled consultation on October 14th.*

*Your husband’s office informed us that you were too weak to travel and wished to cancel all future appointments.*