Relief flooded her face so fast it looked like she might collapse from it. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for believing me.”
I pulled out of the airport lane and drove without a plan for the first minute, heart pounding, mind racing. Call the police? Tell them what—my granddaughter overheard something? They’d ask for proof. They’d ask for specifics. They’d look at me like I was a paranoid old man in shock.
I needed evidence.
And then, like a door unlocking in my memory, I remembered a business card I’d carried for decades without ever using.
My father had pressed it into my hand at his funeral. I’d been twenty-eight, numb with grief, and he’d leaned close, voice weak from cancer, and said, “If you ever need real help, call this number. Marcus Chen. Private investigator. Best there is. He owes me a favor.”
I’d kept the card all these years, yellowing in my wallet like an artifact of a life I thought I’d outgrown.
I pulled into a gas station parking lot and dug through my wallet with shaking fingers. There it was.
Marcus Chen. Discreet Investigations. A phone number.
Sophie watched me, silent and trembling.
“Sweetheart,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice, “I need you to trust me. We’re going to find out what’s true.”
She nodded. “I trust you.”
I dialed.
It rang three times before a gravelly voice answered. “Chen.”
“Is this Marcus Chen, the private investigator?” I asked.
“Depends who’s asking.”
“My name is Thomas Whitmore. You knew my father, Robert Whitmore. He gave me your card. Said you owed him a favor.”
A long pause.
“Robert Whitmore,” the voice finally said. “Jesus. I haven’t heard that name in decades.”
“He died in 1990,” I said.
