I picked up Grace’s gray hooded sweatshirt with the frayed cuffs from the corner of the sofa and folded it into my canvas bag.

“Look at how you’re reacting right now,” Daniel said, his voice dropping into the quiet, controlled tone he used to manage upset clients at his firm.

I kept my eyes on the folded gray fleece in my hands.

“I’m getting her things.”

“You always get hysterical whenever Grace has a little cough or ache,” Daniel said.

“She has a six-centimeter pelvic mass,” I said, looking straight at the knot of his tie.

“Because she’s been living with constant anxiety at home for six months,” Daniel said, stepping closer and resting one hand on the back of the sofa.