Margaret’s face lost every remaining trace of color, turning the shade of damp chalk.

She did not look at me; she kept her eyes fixed on the mahogany table in front of her.

“Thank you, Detective,” Samuel Greene said, his voice steady and professional.

“Please ensure those hard drives are logged into the state evidence locker immediately.”

The judge looked down from the bench, her expression hardened into something resembling granite.

“Mr. Morris,” the judge said, addressing Julian.

“Is the security feed from the Westbridge vault still active?”

Julian nodded, holding the phone higher so the camera could capture the screen for the court record.

“It is, Your Honor,” Julian said.

“The police dispatch has already been notified of the break-in at the clinic basement.”

On the screen, the figure in the heavy winter coat turned toward the lens, revealing the sharp, desperate features of Olivia Grant.

She was shoving glass vials into a small, insulated cooler, her hands shaking so violently she dropped one onto the concrete floor.

The sound of the glass shattering didn’t carry through the feed, but the puff of white condensation from the liquid nitrogen was clear.