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“Yes.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “What do you think?”

She scans my face.

“I think I’m sixty years old. I have a comfortable home, friends who irritate me just enough to remain interesting, and a nephew who interferes with my life at every opportunity.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I know who I am, Callum. I don’t want to spend whatever time I have left feeling sick and frightened that I’m becoming someone I don’t recognize.”

“The treatment might give you more time.”

“It might.”

“A lot more.”

“Possibly.”

I look away, jaw tight.

“I know you disagree,” she says.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’ve never been a great liar.”

The door opens before I can answer.

We both look up.

My mother is standing in the doorway.

Catherine Fox is wearing a large fur coat. Her purse hangs from one shoulder, and her hair is perfectly arranged, but her face is wrong. Open in a way I have never seen it. Frightened.

“Mom.”

I’m on my feet so quickly the chair scrapes backwards.

“What are you doing here?”

She doesn’t look at me.

“Mabel,” she whispers.

Mabel has gone completely still.

Her fingers close around the edge of the blanket.

“You told her.”

The betrayal in her voice lands directly on me.

“I didn’t.” I step closer to the bed. “Mabel, I swear to you.”

“Then how is she here?”

“Then how—” She looks at my mother. “How are you here, Catherine?”