“Who else had access to your file back then?” Mara asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.
Evelyn did not answer, her mind racing back to the quiet afternoons in the private wing of the clinic.
She remembered Claire visiting her twice, bringing small baskets of green apples and magazines that Evelyn had been too tired to read.
“Claire was there the day before the labor started,” Evelyn said, her voice flat. “She brought me a cup of chamomile tea.”
“We need to find out who authorized this,” Mara said, her eyes dark with a sudden, sharp anger.
At ten o’clock, Mara left for the courthouse, leaving Evelyn in the quiet of the living room with the weekly laundry.
Lily stood by the sofa, folding a pile of warm white bath towels and stacking them with neat, deliberate movements.
The seventeen-year-old girl twisted the hem of her gray cardigan with her left hand while holding a pillowcase with her right.
“Evelyn,” Lily said, her voice hesitant and quiet. “Do you think people can remember things from before they were three?”
