She turned another page.
“Some of the diagnoses appear to have been entered after the appointments.”
I stared at her.
“After?”
“Yes.”
My voice became barely audible.
“Who entered them?”
The doctor looked at the file.
“An outside billing service.”
I felt a chill move through me.
Luke had always handled my medical paperwork.
He had always said paperwork was too complicated for me.
Insurance.
Appointments.
Prescriptions.
Everything.
I had trusted him.
The doctor continued.
“Someone altered your medical history to make it appear as though you had a chronic fertility disorder.”
I closed my eyes.
Luke hadn’t merely lied to me.
He had built a false medical history around me.
He had made me believe my body was defective.
He had convinced me that every dead baby was my fault.
And now I understood why.
Because if I believed I was infertile, I would never ask why my pregnancies kept ending.
