Kenneth’s expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Enough.
“That may be coincidence,” he said.
“But you don’t think it is.”
“I think we need to verify timelines.”
My office felt colder.
I looked at the rain-streaked window.
My mother had died six years before Connor and I started fertility treatments. She had never known how hard we tried. Never sat with me through failed cycles. Never told me whether hope was worth the pain.
But Dana had been there, somewhere at the edges of both losses.
“Could she have had access to my old medical information?” I asked.
“Possibly limited information, depending on her role. But old oncology office records would not explain fertility clinic documents.”
“No,” I said. “But it means she recognized me.”
Kenneth nodded slowly. “That is possible.”
