Five Audited Bank Receipts Proved What Julian Had Done Before Noah Was Born
The suction bulb dropped from his fingers and rolled across the stainless steel tray with a dull metallic sound.
Dr.
Thorne leaned down until his surgical mask nearly touched the baby’s back, his eyes locked on a distinct strawberry-colored birthmark shaped like a tiny crescent behind the left shoulder.
His shoulders went rigid under his blue paper gown.
He reached up with one gloved hand and rubbed the knot of his scrub tie hard against his collarbone.
“Who is this child’s father?” he asked, his raspy bedside voice cracking down the middle.
“Julian Vance,” I said, pressing my left thumb hard into my palm against the sharp ache in my belly.
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