Dr. Thorne's Observation

"You're shaking, Mrs. Vance."

I clasped my hands together, forcing a smile that felt tight and unnatural. "It's just the coffee, Dr. Thorne. I had an extra cup this morning. Audit preparation."

Dr. Aris Thorne didn't return the smile. He was younger than Arthur's previous gerontologist, with sharp, observant eyes that seemed to dissect the room as thoroughly as his patient. He stood by the window in Arthur’s bedroom, scrolling through the data on his tablet, the morning light catching the silver rim of his glasses.

Arthur was asleep, sedated by the mid-morning cocktail of meds. He looked peaceful, a stark contrast to the terrified, weeping man who had clung to me yesterday.

"I understand," Thorne said, his tone neutral. "Stress affects us all differently."

He walked back to the bed, checking the pulse oximeter clipped to Arthur’s finger. I watched him closely. After Simon’s visit yesterday, every professional who walked through the door felt like a potential spy. I needed Thorne to see a well-run sickroom, a competent guardian, and a stable environment. I needed him to sign the monthly wellness report without asking questions.

"His vitals look good," I said, trying to steer the narrative. "He's been eating well. The new nutritionist sent over a meal plan."

"His weight is stable," Thorne agreed. "But I'm concerned about his sleep cycle."

"He has dementia, Doctor. Insomnia is part of the progression. Sundowning."

"It's not sundowning," Thorne said. He tapped the screen of his tablet and held it out to me. "I've been reviewing the data from his smart watch. Look at this."

I looked at the graph. It was a jagged line of peaks and valleys.

"This is his heart rate and cortisol estimation over the last week," Thorne explained. "In typical dementia patients, agitation usually begins in the late afternoon and tapers off. Or it’s erratic, random."

He pointed to a series of sharp, violent spikes in the graph.

"Arthur’s agitation is clockwork," he said. "Every night. Between 2:00 a.m. and 3:00 a.m. His heart rate doubles. His stress hormones go through the roof. It’s not the slow confusion of sundowning, Mrs. Vance. It’s a fight-or-flight response."

I stared at the red peaks. 2:00 a.m.

The time Richard had come back inside from the rain. The time the light in the Carriage House had flickered.

"He has nightmares," I said weakly. "He screams about... old memories."

"It’s more than nightmares," Thorne said, taking the tablet back. He looked at Arthur, then at the empty chair by the bed, then at the heavy velvet curtains drawn against the day.

He turned his gaze to me. It wasn't accusatory, but it was dangerously perceptive.

"Physiologically, this isn't the profile of a man lost in a memory," he said quietly. "This is the profile of a man reacting to an immediate, external threat."

He lowered his voice, stepping closer so the sleeping man wouldn't hear.

"It's almost as if he's terrified of a visitor he sees after dark."