“I’m going to the police, Daniel,” Ethan said. “I have the transfer logs. I have the actual surgical times.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Daniel said.

The calm in his voice made my stomach drop.

“You’re not in a stable frame of mind, Ethan,” Daniel said. “The grief has been hard on you. Everyone knows that.”

“What are you talking about?” Ethan demanded.

“I’m talking about the babies,” Daniel said softly. “Four beautiful, fragile infants. They require a lot of care. A lot of supervision.”

I looked at Ethan, whose body had gone completely rigid.

“A grieving father, obsessed with conspiracies, neglecting his newborns in a giant, empty house,” Daniel said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “It wouldn’t take much to convince the state that those children are in danger.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Ethan whispered.

“I’ve already had a preliminary conversation with a contact at Child Protective Services,” Daniel said. “Just a friendly heads-up about my concern for your mental well-being.”

I felt a chill run down my spine, my hand instinctively reaching for the door handle.