The Woman at the Head of the Table

I crouched down—out of reach, the guards between us—and looked at him steadily.

“You wanted to talk,” I said. “Then let me give you your final diagnosis. It’s the last thing I’ll ever give you.”

He went still.

“Did you really think I just accidentally bumped Khloe’s tray?” I said quietly. “I pulled the OR logs. Khloe didn’t bring me saline. She brought a lethal IV dose of Pitocin.

She provoked me to cover the fact that she was trying to inject it and rupture my uterus. It’s all documented, timestamped, and already with the DA.”

Preston stopped breathing.