They exchanged a look I’d seen before in other contexts, the kind that says everything without saying anything.

“She could have…” the younger one started, then stopped. “We need to transport her.”

“I’ll follow,” I said.

After they wheeled her out, I stood in the empty bedroom, looking at the evidence: unopened medication bottles lined up on the nightstand, a glass just out of reach, the wheelchair deliberate in its distance. I checked Chester’s room next. Clothes were scattered across the floor, drawers yanked open, hangers empty. The passport that usually lived in his desk drawer was gone.