The lock clicked open.

I shoved the phone deep into the laundry hamper and threw a clean towel over my mother’s bare shoulders a microsecond before the door swung in.

Daniel stood there, a flathead screwdriver in his fist. His eyes swept the room — the running shower, the steam, then me, standing in front of our mother.

“The lock was stuck,” he lied smoothly, his eyes cold. “I got worried. She slips easily.”

“We’re fine,” I said, my heart slamming. I made myself glance at the screwdriver, then back to his face, feigning mild annoyance. “You startled us, Daniel.”

He didn’t put the tool away. He stepped into the humid room, looked at the towel draped over my shivering mother, and took another step until I could smell the scotch on his breath.