“The paternal marker does not match Ethan,” I said.

The room went entirely silent.

Even the hum of the heating vent seemed to die away.

Ethan swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“What?” he whispered.

“You heard me,” I said. “The child is mine. But you are not the father, Ethan.”

He turned to his mother, his face pale and confused.

“Mom?” Ethan asked. “What is she talking about?”

Margaret did not look at him.

She kept her eyes locked on me, her fingers tightening around her designer purse.

“Tests can be wrong,” Margaret said coldly. “Lab errors happen all the time.”

“This was not an error,” I said.

I remembered the clinic’s filing cabinets down the hall, and the rumors about the late director, Dr. Morris.

There were whispers that his son, Julian, had been looking through his father’s old files.

“Someone changed the donor sample,” I said, watching Margaret’s face for any sign of cracking.

Her jaw tightened, just for a second.

Ethan looked between us, his breathing shallow.

“That’s impossible,” Ethan said. “We used my sample. I was here.”

“You were here, Ethan, but you did not control the lab,” I said.

Margaret stood up, her purse strap slung over her arm.

“We are leaving,” she said to Ethan. “We do not have to listen to these wild accusations.”

“Sit down, Margaret,” I said. “We are not finished.”

She stared at me, her eyes cold and calculating, but she did not move toward the door.

Ethan looked like he was about to cry, his hands gripping his knees.

The heavy oak door to the private consultation room suddenly rattled.

The brass handle turned slowly, drawing all of our eyes away from the papers on the desk.

The door swung inward with a low creak.

A tall man in a dark charcoal suit stood in the threshold.