Armed with the doctor's professional opinion, I let out a cold, bitter laugh.
Mamie's lie wouldn't survive five minutes of scrutiny. And Oliver—an operations director at a Fortune 500 company, a man who prided himself on his intellect—he hadn't been fooled. He'd known all along. He simply enjoyed the arrangement too much to question it.
I found a computer repair shop and had them pull the footage from the memory cards. Even though I'd braced myself for what I'd see, the tears still came, streaming down my face in hot, relentless lines.
No wonder I'd been sick all the time in my past life. No wonder the dizziness and exhaustion had worsened after I got pregnant—so much so that Mamie barely had to push before I tumbled down those stairs.
No wonder, even after the miscarriage, I'd been bedridden for months, wasting away until I coughed up blood and died.
And through all of it, Oliver had told me it was my own fault. That my mental state was the problem. That I was acting like a lunatic.
I grabbed my bag and headed straight for First General Hospital. An hour later, the test results were in my hands.