My triplets refused to blow out their birthday candles until I set a fourth place at the table.

The harbor district of Capital City was a relic of the industrial shipping boom, now filled with crumbling brick warehouses, rusted cranes, and deserted piers.

At 11:30 PM, the fog rolled off the bay, wrapping the streetlights in halos of damp yellow light.

We found the address on the brass directory of a renovated warehouse: *Vance Reproductive Advisory Services – Suite 304*.

The building’s front entrance was locked, but the service door by the loading dock had been wedged open with an iron pipe. We climbed the dark concrete stairwell, our sneakers squeaking against the damp steps.

Suite 304 was lit from within. A frosted-glass door displayed Vance's name in peeling gold vinyl.

Adam didn't knock. He turned the brass handle and shoved the door open.

The reception area was dark, smelling of stale cigar smoke, old paper, and single-malt scotch. In the inner office, a man sat behind a cluttered teak desk, illuminated only by the green glow of a banker’s lamp.

Kenneth Vance looked twenty years older than the smooth, confident surgeon who had delivered our babies in Room 412. His hair was a ragged, greasy white fringe; his face was bloated and veined from heavy drinking; his cuffs were frayed. A half-empty crystal decanter sat beside a stack of unpaid tax notices.

When the door banged against the wall, Vance jumped, knocking over a silver pen holder.

"Who’s there?" he slurred, reaching frantically toward a desk drawer. "The building is closed!"

Adam crossed the room in three strides, slammed the desk drawer shut with a deafening crack, and leaned over the desk, pinning Vance to the back of his leather chair.

"Recognize us, Doctor?" Adam growled, his face inches from Vance's.

Vance squinted through bloodshot eyes. He looked at Adam's towering frame, then glanced at me standing in the doorway.

The color evaporated from his bloated cheeks. His breath hitched in a ragged gasp.

"Morgan," Vance whispered, his voice cracking with instant, terror-stricken recognition. "Oh, God. You found her."

"You sold our daughter," I said, walking toward the desk, every word dripping with ice. "You looked me in the eyes twelve hours after major surgery, told me my baby had stopped breathing, and handed her to Victor Sterling's driver."

Vance buried his face in his trembling hands, let out a dry, rattling sob, and began to rock back and forth.

"I had no choice," he wept. "You don't know what Victor Sterling does to people who tell him no."

"You had a choice!" Adam roared, slamming his fist onto the teak desk so hard the green lamp shade rattled. "You took an oath, you miserable coward!"

"Claire Sterling was bleeding out on table three!" Vance cried, looking up with tears streaming through the wrinkles of his face. "Her uterus ruptured at twenty-six weeks. The fetus was dead before we could make the incision. When Victor arrived, he pulled me into the scrub room. He held a scalpel to my throat. He told me that if his wife woke up without a child, he would destroy my career, revoke my hospital credentials, and ensure my son’s medical malpractice suit resulted in a prison sentence!"

"So you stole mine instead?" I shouted, my voice breaking.

"He promised me she would be treated like royalty!" Vance sobbed. "He paid off your remaining hospital balance! He gave me three hundred thousand dollars to pay off my debts! He told me you had three other babies—that you would survive!"

"Where are the records, Vance?" Adam demanded, grabbing the doctor by his lapels and hauling him half out of his chair. "The original paper intake logs from St. Jude’s. The ones with your private transfer notes. Croft told us they have an ironclad New York birth certificate."

"It's a fake!" Vance choked out, clawing at Adam's hands. "The New York certificate was filed using a corrupt registry clerk in Albany! The only real record—the original footprint card, the blood-type panel from Baby D showing your genetic markers—is in my private safe!"

"Open it," Adam ordered, releasing his grip.

Vance stumbled around the desk, his knees knocking together. He knelt before an ancient iron floor safe tucked beneath the credenza. With trembling, sweating fingers, he spun the combination dial three times left, two times right.

The heavy door swung open with a dull mechanical click.

From the dark interior, Vance pulled out a thick, faded blue folder labeled: *CONFIDENTIAL – INFANT MORGAN (DELTA) / STERLING TRANSFER PROTOCOL 2017*.

Inside were twenty pages of carbon-copy hospital intake charts, a pink ink footprint card showing two tiny feet no larger than a thumbprint, and a signed private agreement between Dr. Kenneth Vance and Victor Sterling detailing a cash payment of $350,000 for "unauthorized pediatric facilitation."

It was the smoking gun. The entire conspiracy, documented in Victor Sterling’s own distinctive, sweeping signature.

"Take it," Vance whispered, slumping against the safe, completely broken. "Take it and destroy him. He ruined my life anyway. But hurry. Julian Croft knows I keep copies. He came here yesterday asking if the Morgan files were secure."

"He already knows," Adam said, clutching the blue folder against his chest.

Suddenly, from the stairwell outside Suite 304, came the distinct, heavy sound of boots climbing the concrete steps.