“Look at the maternal marker comparison.”

“It doesn’t match Claire.”

I stared at the page, my mind racing to make sense of the data.

“That’s impossible,” I said. “The embryos were Claire’s. You told me they were.”

“They were supposed to be,” Benjamin said.

He picked up the manila envelope and tipped it over.

A flash drive slid out onto the desk, along with a folded piece of paper.

I opened the paper.

It was a copy of a legal contract from a fertility clinic in Denver, dated nine years ago.

The name of the attending specialist was Dr. Julian Vance.

I recognized that name.

“Dr. Vance was Vanessa’s personal physician before she married you,” I said, my voice barely audible.

“He was the one who treated her after her car accident.”

Benjamin grabbed the flash drive and plugged it into his laptop on the desk.

The screen flickered to life, the fan of the computer whirring loudly in the silence.

A directory appeared with several video files and scanned PDF documents.

Benjamin clicked on the first PDF.

It was an authorization form for embryo transfer.