“The detailed diagnostic logs were moved into a restricted vault on his sole authority.”

I looked down at the receipt and saw Spencer’s corporate account code printed across the top margin.

“Did my third cycle fail because of my body, Dr.

Vance?” I asked him quietly.

Dr.

Vance stared at the far wall, his jaw tight and still, as he handed me the receipt for the locked paper archive.

I tucked the receipt into my purse and walked out into the morning chill of Park Avenue without another word to the receptionist.

By ten o’clock I was sitting at a small corner table in the café on Central Park South, watching the horse-drawn carriages line up along the stone wall.