A tinted town car waited at the underground loading dock to take me to a secure townhouse Faye had leased under an LLC.

As we pulled into traffic, my phone buzzed — an alert from a hospital-lobby camera feed Faye had been granted temporary access to, citing documented safety concerns.

Ian and Regan were walking through the sliding doors below, Regan holding a cheap bouquet of yellow carnations, her face arranged into a mask of maternal concern.

From their intercepted, lawfully obtained correspondence, Faye knew why they had come.

They were bringing a notary.

They meant to press me, while they believed me medicated, into signing a statement calling the whole thing a tragic accident and transferring the deed to the trust they thought they controlled.