“No idea,” I said, grabbing a napkin to blot the coffee. “I deal with ventricles and valves, Marcus, not invoices.”

“Well, someone is playing Robin Hood,” Marcus hissed, leaning over my desk, his cologne overpowering the smell of antiseptic. “We’ve audited the system. There is no ‘Alpha’ charity fund. It doesn’t exist. Someone has been manually overriding the billing protocols for this patient for thirty-six months. We are talking about two hundred thousand dollars in stolen services, Dr. Evans.”

My stomach dropped. “Stolen?”

“Theft of services,” he corrected, adjusting his silk tie. “And since you are her primary care provider, and you seem quite… emotionally invested… in the mother, I’m starting my investigation with you.”

“That’s absurd,” I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. “I barely know Clara outside of this room. I treat the girl.”