I left the envelope on the table, picked up my handbag, and took the elevator to the third floor.

In the private waiting lounge outside Room 304, my sister Brenda sat in a velvet armchair while my mother, Beatrice, twisted a lace handkerchief between her hands.

Brenda didn’t stand when I walked in.

She tapped her heavy gold rings on the glass coffee table, making a sharp click that echoed off the painted walls.

“Where have you been?” Brenda demanded, her voice sharp and loud.

“Chloe is at home in tears.