He held a faded manila folder under his left arm.

I recognized his sharp jawline and the intense, dark eyes from the photographs in the clinic’s lobby.

It was Julian Morris.

“Am I interrupting?” Julian asked, his voice quiet but steady.

Margaret’s face turned the color of dry paper.

“This is a private family matter,” Margaret said, her voice rising. “Get out.”

Julian did not look at her.

He walked straight to the mahogany table and laid the folder down next to my purse.

The brass buckles on his briefcase clinked in the quiet room.

“My father kept a lot of secrets,” Julian said, looking directly at me. “But he was a meticulous record-keeper.”

Ethan stared at him, his brow furrowed, his hands still gripping his knees. “Who are you?”

“Julian Morris,” he replied. “Dr. Morris was my father.”

He opened the folder.

Inside were yellowed pages with the Westbridge Fertility Clinic letterhead.

“The clinic closed its doors for a reason,” Julian said. “My father died holding secrets that should have gone to court years ago.”

“We have nothing to discuss with you,” Margaret said, standing up. “Ethan, we are leaving.”