Her name was Winifred Alcott.

She had terminal cancer, and a nurse told me she’d spent her last weeks staring down the hallway as if she were waiting for something.

Before she closed her door, she pressed a small digital voice recorder into my hand.

“Last night your husband took a call out on the balcony,” she whispered.

“He said they needed to disconnect your father before the weekend.

And that afterward, the daughter wouldn’t be a problem anymore.”