“Set A,” I whispered. “Kenneth, how many embryos did Connor and I have?”
He sat across from me, placing my phone carefully on the desk between us.
“According to the original clinic records we have so far,” he said, “there were two viable embryo groups documented after your last retrieval.”
I closed my eyes.
Two.
I remembered that retrieval.
The way Connor had been unusually attentive afterward, bringing me ginger tea and telling the nurse he would take excellent care of me. I had cried in the car, not from pain exactly, but from a fragile hope I was afraid to hold too tightly.
Two groups.
Two possibilities.
“What happened to them?” I asked.
Kenneth’s jaw tightened. “The records are inconsistent.”
“Inconsistent is attorney language again.”
“It means someone either made serious administrative mistakes,” he said, “or someone wanted the record to be hard to follow.”
The office seemed smaller than it had minutes before.
