“Grace,” he said, standing up. “You’re late.”

“I went to the hospital archives,” I said.

I walked over and placed the folder on his desk.

He stared at the dusty cardboard cover.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Claire’s actual admission report,” I said.

“The one from the night she died.”

Ethan did not touch it at first.

He stared at it as if it might burn him.

“I told you her records were sealed,” he whispered.

“They were,” I said. “But someone left a copy in the basement.”

I pointed to the bottom of the first page.

“Dr. Vance wrote a note here.”

“It contradicts the official cause of death you were given.”

Ethan picked up the folder with slow, cautious fingers.

He read the handwritten lines.

His face went entirely pale.

The glass of scotch remained on the desk, reflecting the firelight.

“This can’t be right,” he said.

“The hospital board assured me there were no complications.”

“Daniel sat in the room with me and confirmed it.”

“He said the monitor just stopped.”

I stepped closer to the desk.