It was the only room in the building where nobody came in to check blood pressure or change IV bags.

A single narrow stained-glass window cast amber light across the polished oak floor.

Marcus sat on a stained pine pew with three yellow legal pads lined up perfectly on his lap.

He spread out the photocopies of Daniel’s black ledger, the deleted voicemail transcript from Paula Jenkins, and the signed Against Medical Advice form from October twelfth.

“The signature on the waiver doesn’t match your handwriting on the intake sheet,” Marcus said, running his index finger down the margin of the second page.

“A handwriting expert could confirm that in forty-eight hours, but we don’t have forty-eight hours.”