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.
