Late in the night, when the hallway had grown quiet and the lights dimmed, their voices drifted toward me, low and urgent, spoken with the confidence of people who believed they could not be overheard.
“She will not remember any of this,” Lorraine whispered, her tone firm and commanding. “The medication is doing exactly what the doctor said it would.”
Raymond responded calmly, almost casually, as if they were discussing household errands instead of my life. “We just need her fingerprint. Once that is done, everything transfers automatically.”
Panic surged through me, flooding my chest and making my heart race, but my body remained unresponsive. I tried to move my hand. Nothing happened. I tried to force a sound from my throat. The air would not obey me.
I felt fingers close around my hand, lifting it gently but firmly. Something cold and smooth pressed against my thumb, and even in my haze I understood what was happening.
“Hurry,” Lorraine said sharply. “Move every account. Do not leave anything behind.”
Raymond exhaled, sounding relieved. “After this, we leave. We tell her the loss was too much, that we could not cope. She will be broken enough not to question it.”