Progesterone. Folic acid. A layperson might have needed an explanation, but Declan had prescribed both often enough to know what they meant together. His eyes dropped to the patient details at the top of the page.
Finch watched Declan read the values, then turn the report over as though another result might be printed on the back.
“The levels and uterine tissue degradation put the pregnancy at approximately ten weeks,” Finch said.
Declan caught the edge of my autopsy table as his knees gave way. His palm slid across the steel before he found a grip, leaving a damp print beside my hip. Then he looked at the incision he had made in my abdomen only minutes earlier.
A few days ago, I had stood in his office with a black-and-white sonogram folded inside my hand. I had come to tell him about
