“You should,” Richard said. “It is the only reason you are allowed to practice medicine in this city.”

He reached down and tapped the speakerphone button again.

The line went dead.

The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating.

Richard turned his gaze back to me.

He looked at my faded hospital gown, my pale skin, and the thin blanket.

“You think this changes things,” Richard said.

“It proves I didn’t lie,” I whispered.

“In our world, proof is a commodity,” Richard said. “It can be bought, sold, or destroyed.”

He took a step closer to my bed, his dark coat brushing against the metal railing.

“Your children are currently in the neonatal intensive care unit,” he said.

My breath caught in my throat.

“Don’t you dare go near them,” I said.

“My wife is very particular about her legacy,” Richard said. “She does not like to lose.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his gloves, sliding them slowly onto his hands.

“The boy and the girl are Harrisons,” he said. “They do not belong in a state-assisted ward.”