I told them about the administrator, and I watched the word land.
“You can’t prove any of that,” Weston said, but his voice had thinned.
Xavier raised the envelope.
“The hospital’s audit can.”
And then Delphine, who had spent eleven years being the careful one, made the mistake that panic makes.
“Weston — you said the records were gone.”
His head snapped toward her.
“Shut up.”
That single command told the whole corridor what their staged photographs never had.
I took out my phone, not to record — I’d learned that lesson too — but to steady my hands with something to hold.