My stepdad raised me after I lost my mother — just hours before he d*ed, he gripped my hand and whispered, “There’s something I’ve hidden from you your entire life.”

That’s not a guarantee of anything.

But it’s a start.”

“What about Frank?” I asked.

“What happened to him in that room?”

“The medical examiner’s office will look at his chart and the nursing records for that shift.

If Gerald administered anything, or tampered with anything, there may be a trace.” He paused.

“Or there may not be.

I want to be honest with you about that.”

“I understand.”

“In the meantime, I need you to do something that’s going to be difficult.” He looked at me steadily.

“I need you to see Gerald.

In person.

Before the funeral arrangements are finalized.”

“Why?”

“Because right now he thinks you don’t know anything.

That’s the only advantage you have.

If he sees you grieving and trusting, he’ll relax.

And when people relax, they make mistakes.” He slid a small card across the table.

“I want you to wear a wire.”