“The baby was always meant to be sick,” Evan said.

He looked at Lorenzo, his eyes wide and glassy under the flashing alarms.

“You think this was about curing him?” Evan laughed, a dry, coughing sound. “You’re richer than God, Lorenzo.”

“What did you do to my son?” Lorenzo demanded, taking a half-step forward.

Evan clicked the hammer of the gun back.

Lorenzo stopped.

“I kept him just sick enough,” Evan said.

The alarm wailed, a piercing tone that vibrated through the floorboards.

“Every dose of medicine we brought in had to be adjusted,” Evan continued, his gaze darting between Lorenzo and the nursery door.

“Adjusted how?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“A little salt, a little sedative, a little heavy metal,” Evan said.

He sounded almost proud of the precision.

“Just enough to mimic a rare, failing metabolic disorder,” he said.

Lorenzo’s hands fisted at his sides, his fingernails digging into his palms until they bled.

“Who paid you?” Lorenzo asked, his voice shaking with a father’s rage.

“Your own accounts, actually,” Evan said.

He let out a short, hysterical chuckle.