“This is my home,” I said quietly.

But even as I spoke the words, they felt hollow. I was 62 years old, a recently retired nurse who’d spent her career savings helping pay for James’ experimental treatments. What claim did I really have to this sprawling Georgian mansion in Greenwich? To the life we’d built together in rooms I’d thought would shelter me until my own death?

Ellaner laughed, and the sound was like glass breaking.

“Your home? Oh, my dear Catherine, you really haven’t been paying attention, have you?”