A man’s voice responded, low and tired.
“Send her in.”
Hannah stepped inside and saw a large desk buried under folders, printouts, and medical paperwork stacked like a life-sized problem no one could solve.
Behind it sat Logan Hart.
Thirty-eight, maybe. But the exhaustion on his face made him look older. Dark circles under his eyes. Shoulders tight like he never stopped bracing for bad news.
He lifted his gaze and studied her with the cool focus of someone used to reading risk.
“Sit, please.”
Hannah placed her suitcase beside the chair and sat carefully, hands folded.
Logan didn’t waste time.
“The agency says you’ve worked with children who have significant needs.”
“Yes, sir,” Hannah said. “Three years with a little girl who had cerebral palsy. Before that, two years with a boy on the autism spectrum who needed full support.”
His expression softened slightly, then tightened again.
“Why did you leave those positions?”
Hannah’s throat tightened the way it always did when she reached that part.
“The girl’s mother relocated overseas and placed her with a specialized program. The boy…” She paused, steadying her voice. “He had a sudden medical crisis. His family no longer needed in-home care after that.”
Logan watched her closely.
“I’m sorry,” he said, quieter.
“Thank you. It was hard, but it taught me something important.”
“What?”
Hannah met his eyes. “To notice small changes. The kinds of details people overlook when they’re focused only on tests and charts.”
Logan leaned back and rubbed a hand down his face like he’d done that same motion a thousand times.
“I’m going to be direct, Hannah.”
“I prefer direct.”
He exhaled.
“In the last two years, I’ve spent over three million dollars on specialists, labs, treatments, travel. My sons are five. Identical twins. Owen and Eli.”
Hannah leaned forward slightly.
Logan’s voice grew strained, like saying the words made them heavier.
“They’re getting worse. No one can tell me why.”
He flipped open a folder and pushed it toward her. Hannah didn’t touch it yet. She didn’t want to look like she was pretending to be something she wasn’t. But she listened hard.
“It started about a year and a half ago,” Logan continued. “Extreme fatigue. Muscle aches. Trouble focusing. Weight loss. They don’t play like kids should.”
“What have doctors suspected?” Hannah asked.
“Anemia at first. Then autoimmune issues. Genetic syndromes. Everything comes back unclear.”
His jaw clenched.
“We’ve seen people in Seattle, New York, Boston. The best. Still nothing.”
Hannah’s mind ran quietly through possibilities, but one thing tugged at her attention.
“Where is their mother?”
The temperature in the room dropped.
Logan’s face shut down like a door locking.
“Audrey passed away two years ago. A traffic accident.”
Hannah swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
He stared at the folder like it was a trap.
“The boys were three. Their symptoms started about six months after.”
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