Ethan stepped backward.
“No.”
“They told me I’d had a psychological breakdown. They said I’d been admitted voluntarily. They showed me documents with my signature.”
“You don’t remember signing them?”
“No.”
“Four months?”
“No.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I know.”
Ethan looked toward the door.
Westbridge Women’s Center.
Closed four years ago.
His mother.
Richard.
Daniel Cross.
Every piece suddenly pointed toward something far worse than a fabricated affair.
“Hannah…”
She reached beneath her pillow.
“I kept one thing.”
She handed him a folded sheet of paper.
Old.
Creased.
Nearly torn apart from being opened too many times.
Ethan unfolded it.
A discharge summary.
Westbridge Women’s Center.
Patient: Hannah Mercer.
Procedure: Pregnancy termination.
Date: February 12.
He frowned.
Then saw the detail handwritten near the bottom.
Gestational age: 37 weeks.
Ethan’s entire body went still.
“That isn’t a termination.”
“I know.”
“That’s a delivery.”
“I know.”
