complicate things.

Naomi’s face tightened.

“He should not know about this meeting.”

Then the photograph arrived.

My apartment building, taken from across the street.

A final message appeared.

Don’t open her envelope.

I felt cold all over.

I answered when he called again.

“Lena,” Adrian said, sounding almost relieved.

“Thank God.

Where are you?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re upset.

You should not be alone.”

The familiarity of that phrase disturbed me.

He had used similar language about Mara.

She should not be alone.

She should not make decisions.

She should not manage her own medication.

She should not talk to lawyers without him.

Control dressed as concern.

“If something was delivered,” Adrian continued, “you need to understand Mara was not thinking clearly.”

“What was delivered?”

He paused.

“Did someone contact you?”

“You filed to have my sister declared incompetent yesterday.”

Silence.

It was only two seconds.

But in those two seconds, I heard him recalculate.

When he spoke again, warmth disappeared from his voice.

“Who are you with?”

I ended the call.

Naomi immediately contacted bank security and instructed them not to admit anyone.

Then I opened the envelope.

Inside was a private investigator’s report.

Photographs showed Adrian meeting Dr.

Rowan outside restaurants, office buildings, and a private club.

Financial records indicated payments routed from Adrian’s consulting firm to a company owned by Rowan’s brother.

But the last section made my heart pound.

The photographs showed Adrian with Camille Frost.

Camille had been Mara’s closest friend since university.

She brought soup when Mara was ill.

Sat with her during hospital appointments.

Organized flowers for the funeral.

At the graveside, Camille had held me so tightly I could feel her sobbing against my shoulder.

The report showed her entering a storage facility with Adrian late at night.

Another image showed her leaving Mara’s house at 2:13 a.m.

The date was May 14.

I knew that date.

That was the first night Mara called me frightened.

She said someone had been in her bedroom while she slept.

Camille had later told me Mara imagined it.

Written beneath the photograph, in my sister’s handwriting, were six words.

Ask Camille what happened that night.

Naomi produced a digital recorder.

“Mara instructed me to play this only if Adrian contacted you before the evidence was transferred to authorities.”

“He contacted me.”

Naomi pressed play.

Dishes clinked in the background.

Then Adrian’s voice.

“You gave her too much.”

Camille answered.

“She kept waking up.”

“You were supposed to make her look confused, not put her in the hospital.”

My stomach turned.

Camille whispered something.

Then Adrian said, “Once the competency order is signed, I control the trust.

After that, I don’t care what she remembers.”

The recording ended.

For several seconds neither Naomi nor I moved.

Then Naomi said, “We call the police.”

This time I agreed.

Detective Samuel Grant arrived twenty minutes later with another investigator and a financial crimes officer.

I gave them everything.

The recordings.

The laboratory report.

The banking records.

The investigator’s photographs.

Adrian’s messages.

Grant listened carefully, asking short, precise questions.

“Did your sister ever tell you she feared for her life?”

“Not directly.”

“Did she accuse Adrian of poisoning her?”

“No.

She said he was putting something in her drinks.”

“Did you witness it?”

“No.”

He nodded.

I appreciated his refusal