“I will,” I promised. “But I need proof first. I need to know what I’m accusing her of.”
Catherine’s jaw tightened. “And Sophie?”
Sophie stood beside her mother like she was trying to be brave in borrowed armor.
“I’m staying here,” Sophie said quickly. “I’ll be safe.”
Catherine wrapped an arm around her daughter, then looked at me with fierce fear. “If you go to that hotel—”
“I’ll be careful,” I said.
Sophie stepped forward and hugged me hard. “Please,” she whispered into my shoulder. “Please be careful, Grandpa.”
I knelt, held her by the shoulders, and looked her in the eye. “You saved my life,” I said. “You were brave. I’m proud of you.”
Sophie’s lips trembled. “Don’t go home,” she whispered.
“Not yet,” I promised.
Then I got back in my car and drove toward the Fairmont with a heart that felt too big for my ribs.
The hotel parking lot was full of expensive cars, the kind of place where people hid secrets behind valet tickets. I sat in my vehicle for a moment with my hands on the steering wheel, knuckles white, staring up at the third floor.
Room 312.
I felt ridiculous and terrified at the same time. A sixty-three-year-old man in a parking lot, about to play detective in his own marriage. But then I heard Sophie’s voice again, small and shaking, and the ridiculousness burned away.
I walked into the lobby with my head down, trying to look like I belonged. The marble floors gleamed. The air smelled like perfume and money. People moved around me laughing softly, carrying briefcases, sipping coffee as if the world was safe.
I took the elevator to the third floor.
The hallway was quiet and carpeted, the kind of quiet that makes your footsteps too loud. I found 312 and stood outside it with my heart pounding.
Voices leaked through the door.
Margaret’s voice.
Laughing.
I pressed my ear closer, careful, like the door might bite.
“I can’t believe how easy this is,” Margaret said, voice bright, almost giddy. “The old fool actually thinks I’m at a spa.”
A man laughed with her. Dr. Prescott’s voice, smooth and amused.
“You married him for his money,” he said. “Now you get all of it.”
Margaret’s laugh turned colder. “The life insurance alone is eight hundred thousand,” she said. “Plus the house, the savings, his pension. Close to two million when it’s done.”
My stomach twisted.
“And you’re sure the pills will work?” Prescott asked.