“You called it, Dr. Vance. Records from a clinic in Queens—Khloe’s hCG levels are dead zero. She’s got pelvic inflammatory disease from bootleg diet pills.

She paid a tech two grand to print a fake six-week sonogram to trap him.”

I set my coffee down. “Package the real blood work, the tech’s statement, and the payment receipt. Then hand the whole file to the district attorney, and send Preston a copy.

Let him learn the truth the same way I learned mine.”

In the moldering apartment, Preston sat curled on a torn sofa, shivering, gripping the fake sonogram. Every time he blinked, he saw my hands snapping the bed rail.

Even the concept of a pregnancy now triggered panic in him.