My husband forgot his medication at home,

I followed Clara at a discreet distance through a maze of quiet, tree-lined suburban streets. She walked with a hurried pace, her head tucked into her collar, constantly looking over her shoulder as if anticipating an ambush. Her paranoia was palpable.

After four blocks, she turned into the gated courtyard of an unassuming three-story apartment complex nestled behind overgrown hedges. I parked down the block behind a commercial van, cut the engine, and watched her enter Building B using an electronic key fob.

My chest burned with an unbearable cocktail of fury, confusion, and terror. Clara was alive. She had been breathing, eating, walking this earth, while I suffered through depression, while our parents' health deteriorated from grief until they passed away believing their youngest daughter was lost forever.

And Eliam knew.

How long had Eliam known? Did he know before the funeral? Had he helped her disappear?

I stepped out of my car and walked toward the red-brick building where Eliam had met her earlier. The brass plaque beside the entrance read: *St. Jude’s Neurological Rehabilitation and Research Archive*.

I walked through the double glass doors, greeted by the sterile scent of antiseptic and polished vinyl. The front desk was manned by an older woman wearing wire-rimmed glasses.

"Good morning," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I was hoping to inquire about a visitor's pass. My husband was here earlier—Eliam Vance."

The receptionist adjusted her glasses and peered at a computer monitor. "Mr. Vance? Yes, he comes in nearly every morning during visiting hours. But he's registered under the private patient proxy for Room 104."

"And who is the patient in Room 104?" I asked, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The woman frowned, suddenly cautious. "I'm sorry, ma'am. That information is restricted to authorized representatives due to patient confidentiality."

"I'm his wife," I pressed, showing her my driver’s license. "We share everything."

The receptionist gave me a look of deep sympathy, but shook her head. "I cannot disclose patient records, Mrs. Vance. All I can tell you is that Mr. Vance has been paying the custodial fees out of pocket for the past three years. If you need details, you must speak directly to your husband."

Custodial fees. Three years.