“They administered three doses of protamine sulfate,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Why would they give her that?”

“It reverses heparin,” I said, drawing on the years I had spent cleaning the administrative offices of the city’s largest clinics, overhearing doctors discuss their failures.

“She was bleeding,” Ethan said. “They made a cut they shouldn’t have made.”

He turned the page, his movements frantic now.

Attached to the back of the surgical log was a copy of an internal incident report, stamped with the word *Confidential* in red ink.

“Here,” Ethan breathed, his finger pressing hard against the paper. “During the emergency cesarean, the primary surgeon lacerated the uterine artery.”

I watched his face drain of what little color it had left.

“It says it was a technique error,” I read aloud, my voice barely a squeak. “An avoidable complication due to haste.”

“Haste,” Ethan repeated, the word tasting like poison in his mouth. “They rushed her because of the schedule.”

“But why cover it up?” I asked, looking out the window as a pair of headlights swept past us on the quiet road. “Why fake the time of death?”