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…

“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.”