They had spent the whole summer acting careful. My mother clipped coupons in front of me and sighed over grocery prices. My father shook his head when I suggested one quiet weekend away together, like I had asked him to buy a second house instead of share a motel room and a diner breakfast. “This summer we’re staying in,” Mom told me. “It’s just too much.” I believed her because believing them had become a reflex, even after years of little disappointments. They knew I kept one reserve account for emergencies, and they knew my health was the reason I guarded it like oxygen. At 3:08 in the morning, my phone buzzed hard enough to wake me. The notification said $9,860 had been withdrawn from my reserve fund. I sat up so fast the room tilted, opened the banking app, and watched my own life turn into someone else’s vacation. There were first-class flights to Mykonos. There was a luxury suite, a private driver, designer shops, spa treatments, and restaurant holds that cost more than my rent. Every charge use

“No.”

“Can you see Martin’s hands?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

“Is he carrying his briefcase?”

Another pause.

“Yes.”

Martin struck the door once with the flat of his hand.

“Audrey, this is absurd. Open the door.”

The familiar authority in his voice almost worked.

For seven years, Martin had been the person Audrey called when a case turned dangerous. He had defended her budget requests, challenged senior officials who dismissed her, and sent flowers when she and Julian lost their first pregnancy.

He had once told her she was the best investigator he had trained.

She had believed him.

“Why did you ask whether I had regained consciousness?” Audrey called.

Silence.

Diana did not speak.

Neither did Martin.

Audrey’s throat tightened.

Finally, Martin said, “I was given incomplete information.”

“By whom?”

“A member of the estate team.”

“Which member?”

“That is not relevant.”

“It is relevant to me.”

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