After I dropped my wife off at the airport for her wellness retreat, my twelve-year-old granddaughter whispered, “Grandpa… We can’t go home. I heard grandma talking about money and making it look natural.” so we hid. Twenty minutes later, I froze… When I discovered…

Detective Morrison nodded. “Good,” she said. “Then we end this.”

Part 3

Going home felt like walking into a house that had already been turned into a crime scene, except the criminal still lived there.

They fitted me with a watch that looked ordinary but had a panic button beneath the clasp. The police placed tiny cameras in the bedroom, the kitchen, and the hallway outside the study where Margaret liked to take her calls. Marcus parked a van around the corner with monitoring equipment, eyes on screens like we were filming a movie nobody wanted to see.

Detective Morrison rehearsed the plan with me like she was teaching someone to swim.

“Act like nothing is wrong,” she said. “Keep your voice steady. Let her believe she’s in control.”

“How do I do that?” I asked, and my voice sounded like a man asking how to breathe underwater.

Morrison’s eyes softened. “Focus on the job,” she said. “Not the betrayal. Just the job.”

So I did.

I texted Margaret the lie Morrison suggested: that I’d fallen in the kitchen and hurt my hip, that I was sore and confused, that I hated bothering Catherine because she was busy.

I hit send and waited.

Margaret replied within minutes.

Oh Thomas, I’m coming home early. Don’t move. Don’t do anything stupid.

The message made my skin crawl. Even her concern sounded like ownership.

She arrived Thursday, three days after she was supposed to have left for “Kelowna.” She came through the front door with her suitcase and a face carefully arranged into worry.

“Oh, Thomas,” she said, voice syrupy. “You poor thing.”

She touched my shoulder, and the contact felt like ice.

“I’m fine,” I lied, letting my voice wobble just enough. “Just sore.”

She clicked her tongue. “You probably forgot your medication while I was gone,” she said, already walking toward the kitchen. “No wonder you’ve been feeling awful.”

I sat on the couch while she filled a glass of water. The camera in the living room caught everything: the way she glanced at me, measuring; the way she moved with purpose, not panic.

She returned with three pills in her palm.

“The usual vitamins,” she said sweetly.

I took them, lifted the glass, and pretended to swallow. I let the pills sit under my tongue, bitter and chalky, while I forced my face to stay neutral. When she looked away, I spit them into a tissue and folded it tight in my pocket like a secret.