“The police are going to bring the physical ledger from the clinic once they secure the scene.”

Julian joined us, his face pale but determined.

“I had to do it, Claire,” Julian said, his voice low.

“My father built that clinic to help people, not to let people like Margaret buy lives.”

“Thank you, Julian,” I said.

We walked out of the courtroom and into the small, windowless consultation room down the hall.

The air smelled of stale coffee and old paper.

I sat on the edge of a vinyl chair, my fingers tracing the strap of my purse.

The minutes dragged by like hours.

Outside the high window, the Denver sky was turning a heavy, bruised purple as a winter storm rolled in over the Rockies.

Snow began to fall in thin, dry flakes, swirling against the glass.

Samuel paced the floor, his eyes on his watch.

At exactly four o’clock, the door opened, and a detective in a wet trench coat walked in.

He carried a clear plastic evidence bag containing a thick, leather-bound book with brass corners.