“The record says ‘gross professional misconduct’,” Ethan said, reading from his screen again.

“That is what they wrote,” I said.

“Did you hurt a child?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“No,” I said instantly, stepping forward. “Never. I would never harm a child.”

Ethan looked at me, searching my face for any sign of a lie.

I did not look away.

“Then why did they take your license?” he asked.

He walked back to his desk and picked up a silver pen, twisting it nervously between his fingers.

“Why did the hospital administration push for your immediate termination?”

I took a slow breath, remembering the cold, sterile hallways of St. Jude’s.

I remembered the alarms ringing, and the silence that followed.

“They wanted me gone,” I said.

“Why?” Ethan asked.

“Because of what happened the night your wife died,” I said.

Ethan dropped the pen. It rolled across the leather desk pad and clicked against the brass lamp.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Claire’s delivery was complicated,” I said.

“I know that,” Ethan said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “They told me her heart failed.”