“What is your name?” I asked.

“Dr. Vance,” he said.

He stared at Clara, his eyes wide behind his glasses.

“You can’t take her out of this environment,” he said. “She requires constant observation.”

“She is perfectly healthy,” I said. “I saw her charts on the screen.”

Dr. Vance swallowed hard, his throat moving convulsively.

“The charts are… modified,” he whispered.

I stepped closer, using my physical frame to crowd him against the metal wall.

“What do you mean, modified?” I asked.

“The Whitmores required a constant medical justification to keep her here,” he said. “If she is healthy, the legal guardianship becomes harder to maintain.”

“So you lied on her medical records,” I said.

He did not look me in the eye.

He looked down at the silver case on the floor.

“We did what we were paid to do,” he said.

“Who paid you?” I asked. “Was it Tessa, or her father?”

“Both,” he said. “But it wasn’t just about the baby.”

My grip on Clara tightened slightly, though I made sure not to squeeze her.

“What else?” I asked.