Naturally, I’d asked Pamela. She said I’d spent one night in a hospital, for a fever, actually. Todd wasn’t allowed to stay in my room, so he’d slept in the waiting area and woken to me screaming, alone and terrified. That could explain my phobia, but I felt like there should have been more.

Dr. Escoda was the daughter of my former physician, who’d passed away a few years ago. Her office was packed. It didn’t matter. Give Ricky two minutes with the middle-aged receptionist and we didn’t just get a promise that we could see the doctor between appointments, we were shown into an exam room immediately to “protect my privacy.”

Dr. Escoda showed up less than five minutes later, and as she scurried in, I smelled terror wafting from her body like bad cologne. She shook my hand, her damp fingers enveloping mine.

“Ms. Taylor-Jones,” she said. “I’m so glad you stopped by.”

The sweat trickling down her hairline called her a liar.

Back when we first discovered my file had been lost, Gabriel had mentioned the possibility of pursuing it as a legal matter. I hadn’t ruled it out.

“We’re still looking for your file,” she said. “I deeply apologize for the distress it must cause you. I doubt there’s anything important in those records—”

“That’s not the point, is it?”

Ricky’s voice was low and steady, but there was a note in it that I hadn’t heard since James’s funeral. Charming Ricky had disappeared in the waiting room. The guy beside me held his face impassive, his lips tight, not a hint of a smile in his eyes. His leather jacket lay over his knee, the patch clear. He leaned toward the doctor, forearms on his thighs, tattooed biceps straining his T-shirt sleeves, as he watched her like a hawk. No, more like a raven. Zero predatory interest, but a cold, calculating appraisal.

Ricky continued. “The point is not whether Olivia is healthy now, but whether there is anything in her past she should be aware of. Has she ever had chicken pox? Broken a bone? Minor issues, yes, but she has the right to know them.”

“Of course.” Dr. Escoda looked at me. “Your friend here—”

“Boyfriend,” Ricky corrected.

“Your boyfriend is right. Getting those records is important—”

“How often does this happen?” Ricky asked, controlling the conversation, intentionally cutting her short. “How many records mix-ups have you had in your own career?”

“None, but—”

“And your father’s? How many others have you discovered since he passed?”

“None, which is why—”

“So this appears to be an anomaly. An unprecedented situation.”

She hesitated before answering. “I will admit that mix-ups do happen, when records are misfiled or the wrong one is picked up, but that is both rare and temporary. We discover the mistake quickly, and it is rectified and—”