Sophie looked up at me, eyes wide.
“I’m taking her to Catherine,” I said.
Twenty minutes later, we were in the parking lot of Vancouver General Hospital. The hospital loomed like a fortress, windows glowing with fluorescent light even in daytime, the air thick with sirens and urgency. Catherine met us outside, still in scrubs, hair pulled back tight, surgical mask hanging loose around her neck.
Her eyes snapped from Sophie’s tear-streaked face to mine.
“What happened?” she demanded.
I kept it short, because the longer it took, the more likely my courage would fracture. “Sophie overheard Margaret saying… something,” I said. “We think she’s planning to hurt me. Marcus Chen confirmed Margaret didn’t fly. She’s at the Fairmont with Dr. Prescott.”
Catherine’s face went white, then red, then impossibly calm in that way surgeons get when they’re about to cut.
“Mom’s been poisoning you,” she said.
I flinched at how quickly she accepted it, then realized Catherine lived in evidence. She didn’t have the luxury of denial.
“Dad,” she said, voice trembling, “you need to go to police right now.”
“I will,” I promised. “But I need proof first. I need to know what I’m accusing her of.”