“Mr. Sterling will see you now,” she said.

I walked down the long corridor lined with abstract oil paintings.

At the end of the hall, the double oak doors to Charles’s office were slightly ajar.

I pushed them open.

Charles Sterling stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a white ceramic mug.

He did not look like a man who had slept well.

“Emily,” he said, turning to face me. “You have a lot of nerve coming here.”

“I have what we need to end this, Charles,” I said, stepping inside and closing the door.

“Daniel’s lawyers are preparing to file for custody today,” he said, his voice flat.

“He told me you’ve gone unstable.”

“He’s projecting,” I said. “Look at this.”

I walked over to his massive mahogany desk and spread the printed pages across the polished wood.

The red ink of the denial stamps stood out against the white paper.

Charles frowned, setting his mug down.

He picked up the top sheet, his eyes scanning the columns of numbers and names.

“What is this?” he asked.

“The 1987 admissions log from the county clinic,” I said.