I watched them arrive on a secure video feed, from my new room in the other wing — the three of them walking down my former hallway as though they owned it, as though they owned me.

Fiona was carrying flowers, a great expensive bouquet, the prop of a devoted mother-in-law visiting her injured daughter.

Arthur was carrying the transfer folder, still, three days later, expecting to walk out with my signature on it.

And Flynn was carrying my handbag — my own handbag, which he had brought from the house, apparently certain that I would be gathered up and led out of that hospital on his arm, obedient and quiet and signed-over, the way I had been led everywhere for seven years.

They reached the room.

They opened the door.