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Questions pile up in my mind, like, why didn’t Domenico tell me? When did this happen? Now isn’t the time, though. I keep telling myself that while biting the inside of my cheek until I taste copper.

Because this isn’t the time or the place to ask said questions. Not when Dr. Morgan is watching us with the patience of a scientist observing lab rats.

Domenico’s hand tightens around mine. He feels me stiffen, feels the way my fingers go rigid in his grip, and his thumb strokes once across my knuckles. A silent apology, perhaps. Or just an acknowledgment.

He doesn’t look at me. His eyes stay on Dr. Morgan, and his voice when he speaks is level, controlled. “What kind of questions?”

Is he really asking me that now? Oh, wait. She mentioned there were questions, so he must be asking her.

Dr. Morgan looks between us. She’s not stupid. She sees the current running under the table, the way my shoulders have gone tight, the way Domenico’s jaw works. But she’s also not interested in our marital drama.

“I don’t speculate beyond what I can prove,” she states. “But the pattern of medication suggests that the previous regimen may not have been optimized for your mom’s condition.” She pauses. “Or worse, it may have been actively detrimental.”

The words land like stones.

Actively detrimental.

But what does that even mean? No, I can’t think about that. Not yet.

Needing to get back to discussing Mom, I ask the first question that pops into my head. “What about visiting?” My voice sounds thin, stretched. “At Langford, I mean. Will I be able to see her?”

Dr. Morgan nods once. “You’ll receive a visiting schedule. It won’t be daily, and visits won’t last for hours. I need consistency while I’m assessing her. Disruptions make accurate evaluation difficult.”

I hate it. Every cell in my body hates it. The thought of leaving Mom with strangers, of not being able to sit by her bed and brush her hair and tell her about my day—it makes me want to scream.

But Dr. Morgan is sitting across from me with her stack of folders and her unblinking certainty, and for the first time since the accident, someone is offering more than stable and comfortable.

Someone is offering answers.

“Okay.” I swallow thickly. “Transfer her.”

Dr. Morgan shoots me an apologetic glance. “I’m afraid I need Mr. DeLuca to sign off on it.”

“What?” I half-shriek, anger pulsing through me at her words. “Why in the hell does he need to sign off on my mom’s anything?”

“Actually,” Domenico says, clearing his throat. “If you study the paperwork properly, Dr. Morgan, you’ll see that Kira DeLuca has been in charge of Paige ever since her dad was found… unfit.”

I can barely… wait, what was that? I’m in charge of Mom?

Deciding to ignore Domenico for now, I look at Dr. Morgan, who tries to hide a self-satisfied smile. But she doesn’t manage to wipe it away before I see it.

“I know,” she says simply. “I wasn’t sure if your wife did, though. So I figured she should be aware.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I ask what I need to sign or do to get Mom moved. I need to stay on task here before some new bomb in the form of life-altering revelations drops. Dr. Morgan shows me the forms I need to sign on her laptop, and I quickly fill everything out.

She gathers the papers she had shown me earlier with efficient movements. “That’s everything,” she says, even offering a tight smile. “Langford will send transport this afternoon.” She stands abruptly. “I’ll talk to you later, Mrs. DeLuca. Mr. DeLuca.”

“Wait,” I call out just as she reaches the door. “I need to say goodbye before you transfer her.”

“Very well,” she agrees.

Mom’s room is exactly how I left it yesterday—or rather, earlier today—except someone’s changed the sheets.

I pull the chair closer to the bed. The metal legs scrape against the floor, and the sound is too loud in the quiet room. Mom doesn’t flinch. Her chest rises and falls in that even rhythm that’s become as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.

Her hand lies palm-up on the blanket. I take it in both of mine, and her skin is cool, papery thin over the bones. The pulse in her wrist is steady, and I press my thumb against it, counting.

One. Two. Three.