Another pause, softer this time. “Your old man saved my life once,” Marcus said. “What do you need, Mr. Whitmore?”
I took a breath and told him everything—Sophie’s words, Margaret’s behavior, my sudden illness, the retreat.
When I finished, Marcus was quiet for a beat. “Where’s your wife now?”
“At the airport,” I said. “Supposedly flying to Kelowna.”
“Supposedly,” Marcus repeated. “Stay put. Give me twenty minutes. I’ll check flight records, credit cards, whatever I can. Where are you exactly?”
“Near YVR,” I said. “Richmond.”
“Stay there,” he said. “And Mr. Whitmore?”
“Yes?”
“Your granddaughter might have just saved your life.”
The call ended, and the silence in the car felt too loud.
Sophie reached forward and took my hand across the center console, her fingers cold.
I squeezed back, and in that small grip I felt something fierce: a child’s courage, and my responsibility to deserve it.
