The police didn't come to arrest the aunt who pushed my daughter off the balcony—they came with handcuffs for me after my husband handed them a altered medical report.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the tiled hallway.

Two uniformed officers and a plainclothes detective in a rumpled gray suit rounded the corner. Behind them walked Declan, his face twisted into an exquisite mask of performed grief, flanked by Arthur Sterling and Dr. Bradley.

"There she is," Declan said to the detective, his voice trembling with theatrical sorrow. "That’s my wife."

I stood up, backing away until my shoulders hit the cold hospital wall. "Declan, what is this?"

The plainclothes detective stepped forward. He showed a gold badge pinned to a leather flap. "Elena Vance? I’m Detective Miller, Child Protective Services Liaison with County CID."

"Detective, thank God you're here," I said, words tumbling out in a frantic rush. "You need to pull the surveillance footage from the Vance estate. My sister-in-law, Sutton Vance, deliberately shoved my daughter off a second-story terrace! My husband is tampering with the medical records right now, Dr. Bradley is—"

"Ma'am, stop talking," Detective Miller interrupted, holding up a broad, calloused hand.

Dr. Bradley stepped forward, holding a thick manila folder stamped with a bright red *CONFIDENTIAL: MEDICAL-LEGAL* label. He handed it to the detective.

"Detective Miller," Dr. Bradley announced solemnly. "As mandated by state law, St. Jude’s Hospital is submitting our official forensic intake report for patient Nola Vance. The physical trauma sustained tonight is unfortunately not an isolated incident."

"You lying bastard!" I lunged, but Detective Miller’s partner, a burly patrolman, immediately stepped into my path, his hand resting on his service holster.

"Doctor, summarize your findings for the record," Detective Miller instructed, opening the folder.

"Upon comprehensive pediatric skeletal survey," Dr. Bradley read, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, "the patient exhibits three healed fractures along the fifth and sixth ribs, multiple micro-fractures in the wrist indicative of violent twisting, and chronic subdural scarring dating back six to eight months. Furthermore..."

Dr. Bradley paused, turning a sympathetic gaze toward Declan.

"Furthermore, we reviewed the mother’s personal pharmacy records, obtained via emergency health proxy signed by her husband. Mrs. Vance has been filling heavy prescriptions for anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers—prescriptions that have been reported missing or improperly administered."

"I don't take anti-psychotics!" I shrieked, the world spinning wildly around me. "I don't take any medication! Check the pharmacy! Check the signatures! Declan is forging everything!"

Declan covered his face with his hands, letting out a ragged sob. "I tried to hide it, Detective. God forgive me, I tried to protect her. She had postpartum depression that never went away. She gets these rages... she blacks out. Tonight, at the party, Elena took Nola upstairs because Nola accidentally spilled punch on her dress. Sutton went up to check on them and found Elena screaming, shaking the girl near the railing. Sutton tried to pull Nola away, but Elena..."

Declan choked on his words, looking up with reddened, tear-filled eyes.