My wife of thirty-five years. Margaret, who had held our daughter the day she was born. Margaret, who had cried at Catherine’s wedding. Margaret, who had sat beside me at funerals and squeezed my hand.
Planning something bad for me?
No. Sophie had misunderstood. Twelve-year-olds mishear things. Maybe Margaret was watching a crime show. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe—
But as my brain scrambled for excuses, another part of me—older, quieter—started pulling up small memories like receipts.
Margaret asking about my life insurance policy last month, unusually specific questions about payout timelines.
Margaret pushing me to “update my will,” suggesting we “simplify” everything so it was “less complicated for her.”
Margaret insisting I take new vitamins she’d ordered online—tiny pills that made me dizzy and nauseated, that made my heart feel like it was fluttering wrong in my chest.
Margaret becoming colder, distant, turning her cheek when I kissed her, treating intimacy like a chore.
And the retreat itself.
Margaret hated spas. She used to call them “a waste of money.” She preferred gardening, long walks, anything where she stayed in control. Why this sudden retreat? Why the urgency?
Sophie wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her hoodie. “Grandpa,” she whispered, “I think Grandma wants to hurt you.”
I stared at her, and in that moment something shifted. Not because I believed my wife was a murderer—but because I believed Sophie was terrified, and she had no reason to invent this.
“Okay,” I said.
The word surprised me with its calm.
Sophie blinked. “Okay?”
“We’re not going home,” I said. “Not yet.”
