She nodded slowly, a single tear escaping her eye and rolling down her cheek.

The room was quiet now, save for the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Then, the door to the room swung open again.

Dr. Alan Reeves stood in the doorway, holding a thick manila folder against his chest.

His face was entirely white, his breathing heavy as if he had run up the stairs.

He looked at me, then at the empty hallway, and back to me.

“Colonel Hart,” Dr. Reeves said, his voice trembling. “There is something else you need to see.”

I stood up from the bed, my boots clicking on the hard linoleum floor.

“What is it, Dr. Reeves?” I asked.

He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.

His hand shook as he placed the manila folder on the bedside table.

“These are the original admission logs,” he said.

“The ones before the Prescott attorneys had us alter them.”

I opened the folder.

The pages smelled of fresh toner and damp paper.

Inside were toxicology reports from Emily’s previous admissions over the last two years.