I sat on the floor of the bakery apartment and laid the pages out beside the copies from my divorce file, the ones Weston’s lawyers had entered into the record, the ones I’d cried over for a year.
And even to my untrained eye, they did not match.
There were pages in the clinic’s archive that simply did not exist in my copies.
Summary pages.
The pages that translated the raw results into a conclusion — into a name for the failure.
I didn’t understand what I was looking at.
I understood only that I was looking at two different stories wearing the same letterhead.
And that frightened me more than anything had in a year, because it meant one of two things: either the clinic had made a catastrophic error, or someone had reached into my medical records and rewritten them.
I needed someone who could read what I couldn’t.
Through the foundation work I’d done years earlier — the health screenings, the partnerships — I still had one contact at Meridian who would take my call: a name I’d been given long ago as the best reproductive specialist in the city.