I dropped the file on the desk between us. "These records aren't… sufficient." I tapped the thin folder with my fingertips, keeping my voice steady even as irritation licked at my nerves. "Some vital information seems to be missing. Is there a mix–up somewhere?"
She didn't even pretend to care. Her eyes flicked to the file then back to me, her expression blank with careful disinterest.
"This is all there is on Alaric Clinton's records," she said flatly. "I'm sorry."
The apology was false, lacking any real sincerity. It only fueled the slow burn of frustration rising in my chest. I leaned in slightly. "I'd like to speak to someone else. A doctor. Someone who was actually in charge of his case."
I was also losing my patience. I didn't know what game she was playing, but I wouldn't let her win.
"You have to leave, or I'll call security on you, ma'am," Her tone turned unfriendly.
There it was. The shift.
