She didn’t get up.

She just watched me, her hand poised over a delicate porcelain cup.

“You look pale, Claire,” she said, her voice smooth and cold.

I unbuttoned my coat, slowly, making sure she saw the heavy brown envelope.

“I’ve been to the bank, Patricia,” I said.

She set her teacup down with a sharp click.

The silver spoon rattled against the saucer.

“I didn’t think you had any business left at the bank,” she said.

I walked over to the mahogany table and pulled the papers out.

I spread them right next to her silver teapot.

There was the cook’s journal, handwritten in blue ink.

Beside it lay the official medical records from the hospice care team.

“What is this?” she asked, her chin lifting.

“This is the record of what you did to my mother,” I said.

She didn’t look at the papers at first.

She kept her eyes fixed on my face, her expression hardening.

“Your mother was very sick, Claire,” she said. “We all did the best we could.”

“The cook kept a log of every dose you administered,” I said.