“What is this?” I planted my boots and put my body between my grandfather and the men in scrubs. My heart was slamming, but my hands, shoved down in my coat pockets, were perfectly steady.

My mother stepped up and pressed a manicured hand to her chest, a performance of maternal anguish she’d been rehearsing since I was six. “Darling, don’t make this harder than it already is.

We didn’t want to burden you. Grandpa is very, very sick. Dr. Thorne has reviewed his files. He’s a danger to himself. We came home and found him gone — out wandering in a blizzard, for heaven’s sake.”

“You didn’t find him wandering,” I said, and the anger finally cut through the fear. “We were at the bank.”

Thorne stepped forward, smooth and patronizing and thoroughly rehearsed. “Miss Whitaker, I understand this is an emotional moment. But I hold a signed transport order.

Theodore is in advanced cognitive decline. Taking him out into a lethal storm only confirms my report.” He nodded at the orderlies. “Gentlemen. Please secure the patient.”