“If they are discharged, Grant can take them to his estate, and I will never see them again.”

“They cannot discharge triplets who are only thirty-two weeks old,” Margaret said. “It would be medical malpractice.”

“Unless the charts say they are healthy,” I whispered.

Margaret stopped typing.

She looked at me, her eyes widening slightly as the implication hit her.

“Unless someone altered the birth weights and developmental logs,” she said.

I tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through my abdomen.

I gasped, pressing my hand against my bandages.

“Do not move,” Margaret said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“I have to get to them,” I said, tears of frustration stinging my eyes.

“You cannot help them if you tear your stitches,” she said.

I leaned back against the stiff pillows, my breathing shallow.

The smell of antiseptic and old floor wax filled my nose.

Outside, the rain tapped against the thick glass window.

The city lights were blurred by the water running down the pane.

“We need to prove the records were falsified,” I said.

“I am already working on it,” Margaret said.