Ethan flipped the switches, and harsh fluorescent light flooded the glass-walled corridors.

We went straight to the boardroom, a massive room with a polished cherry wood table that sat twenty people.

I began laying out the documents at each seat, placing a copy of the medical logs beside each leather-bound notepad.

My hands shook slightly as I smoothed down the pages bearing the signature of Dr. Kenneth Sterling, the chief surgeon.

“This is where they blamed you,” Ethan said, standing behind me as I looked at the falsified incident report.

“They said I administered the wrong dosage of the anticoagulant,” I said, my throat dry.

“But Sterling’s own initial handwritten notes show he didn’t even check her chart before he opened the artery,” Ethan said.

The door to the boardroom clicked open, and the first board member walked in.

It was Evelyn Vance, a sharp-featured woman in her late sixties who had been a friend of Ethan’s father.

“Ethan,” she said, her coat draped over her arm. “What is the meaning of this? It’s barely dawn.”