“It says your license was suspended two years ago.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Three weeks after my wife died in that hospital,” he said.

He stopped typing and looked at me across the wide desk.

His eyes were red, the dark circles under them more prominent in the morning light.

“You were there,” Ethan said.

“I was on duty in the neonatal unit,” I said.

“Did you know Claire?” he asked.

“I knew of her,” I said. “Every nurse in the maternity ward knew Mrs. Whitmore was expecting quadruplets.”

Ethan stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the gray Lake Forest sky.

His hands were shoved deep into his trouser pockets.

“Why did you apply for a cleaning job here?” he asked.

“I needed work,” I said.

“You are a trained pediatric nurse,” he said, turning back to face me. “You could have worked anywhere else, in any other field, even without an active license.”

“Not with a flagged record,” I said.

“What did you do, Grace?” Ethan asked.

His voice was not angry, but it was filled with a desperate need to know.