Ethan’s brow furrowed.

“Dr. Vance was the chief surgeon,” he said. “He told me he did everything he could.”

“He didn’t,” I said.

“He had been in his private lounge for four hours before the delivery.”

“The nurses tried to call him three times when Claire’s blood pressure started to drop.”

“He didn’t answer.”

“Why?” Ethan asked.

“Because he was asleep,” I said. “And there was an empty bottle of prescription sedatives on his desk.”

Ethan stepped back.

His hand hit the edge of the mahogany desk, causing a silver pen to roll off the edge.

It landed silently on the thick wool rug.

“That is a lie,” he said. “Vance is a brilliant doctor. He is the head of the board.”

“He was impaired,” I said.

“When he finally went into the room, he was rushed.”

“He made a mistake during the incision.”

“He severed an artery, Ethan.”

The rain lashed against the glass behind him.

It sounded like gravel hitting the window.

“He panicked,” I continued. “He tried to patch it himself instead of calling the vascular surgeon on call.”