This time it read: [You're Jessica Sands, your husband's Mike Sands. You're here to celebrate your love.]
She knew us?
If she did, then when she said "he", she meant Mike!
My husband, plotting against me?!
I gasped, a cold dread slithering up my spine like a serpent.
What more did she know?
I gathered my courage, shaky hands and all, and pulled the door open to ask her directly.
But she had vanished!
I stuck my head out, scanning the hallway—nothing.
"Jess?"
It was Mike.
I slammed the door, my heart racing.
"What happened? Who was knocking?"
His hair was damp as he wiped it with a towel.
I dodged his look, my pulse racing. "Nothing, thought I heard something, probably just the wind."
"Should we grab a bite?" I deflected, settling back on the sofa, and cracking open the room service that had just arrived.
Our flight was early tomorrow.
After a week on the road, we were pretty beat, figured we'd just eat in tonight amidst the packing.
But I couldn't shake the old woman's words, and my appetite had vanished.
I just nibbled on some bread.
Mike, clearly hungrier, cleaned up the leftovers.
Everything seemed normal until...
Something's off!
One dish was a chilled beef salad sprinkled with green onions.
Mike had never been one for onions, yet that night, he hadn't missed a single one.
Was this man really the Mike I knew?
My heart was racing, tinged with a whisper of fear.
Mike was swiftly handling the dishes, my gaze locked on his arm.
There was a light pink scar on his brawny arm, a badge from when we were new, trying to shield me, and a shard of glass got him instead.
At that moment, I was certain—the man before me was indeed Mike.
"Noticed the beef was loaded with onions," I dropped casually.
He shrugged it off, "Really? Must've wolfed it down without tasting much."
Really?
That can't be right!
He's super sensitive to onions—could tell if they were even near his food and would refuse to eat it.
How could he possibly not have noticed?
I was about to respond when the doorbell chimed.
The hotel staff was there to pick up the dishes, and Mike took the chance to ask them to fix a clogged drain.
His phone was still on the table, lighting up suddenly.
I sneaked a peek instinctively.
My heart skipped a beat.
The screen showed a chilling message: [When are you going to do it...?]
Mike was plotting to kill me!