His voice softened. “That’s usually where the truth is strongest.”

By sunrise Sabina’s fever had fallen. By breakfast she’d eaten half a cup of applesauce and asked whether her stuffed rabbit was angry because she’d left him at home.

By noon she was discharged with written care instructions, and I drove her not to the mansion but to a suite at a quiet hotel near the lake. Winslow’s assistant had already arranged clothing, medication, Sabina’s favorite crackers, and a new toothbrush with a unicorn on it.

My phone showed thirty-seven missed calls. Thatcher’s messages went from angry to confused to panicked-beneath-a-tone-of-reason.

Vivian, answer the phone. This has gone too far. My mother is devastated. People are asking where you are. Sabina should be in her own bed. You cannot just disappear with my daughter.

By his twelfth message, the tone had changed. We need to talk about the accounts.