I frowned and turned to the next document, which was a copy of the clinic’s internal memo from September 1987.

The letterhead bore the original name of the company: *Carter & Associates Healthcare.*

It was addressed to all staff physicians from the desk of Arthur Carter.

The memo was short and precise.

*To qualify for the Phase II State Development Fund, our non-paying patient ratio must remain below three percent for the final quarter.*

*All uncollateralized admissions must be discharged or transferred within twenty-four hours of initial triage.*

My breath caught in my throat.

They had not been managing beds or patient care.

They had been purging patients who could not pay to meet a government funding quota.

My mother’s employer-provided insurance had expired the very day she was admitted.

Arthur Carter had signed her discharge papers to clear the clinic’s books.

He had sent a critically ill woman home to die so his clinic could secure state millions.

“Mom, look,” Lucas whispered, pointing toward the heavy double doors of the records department.

A tall man in a tailored charcoal suit was speaking to the receptionist.