“Your son was in Miami while Chloe died.”
“He made a mistake.”
“A mistake is missing a flight.”
“Men under pressure behave badly.”
“He switched off his phone.”
“He needed rest.”
“Our daughter was dying.”
“You are not the only person who lost someone.”
That sentence stopped me.
“You didn’t come to the funeral.”
“I didn’t know until this morning.”
Another lie.
I did not know how I knew yet.
But I knew.
Perhaps grief sharpens instincts.
Perhaps years of marriage had taught me more about Arthur and Margaret than I realized.
I studied her.
“When did Arthur tell you Chloe was sick?”
Her eyes shifted.
“I don’t remember.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Claire—”
“Was it before she died?”
Margaret stepped backward.
“I’m not doing this.”
I understood then.
She knew.
Maybe not everything.
But enough.
I closed the door in her face.
That afternoon, I called Julian.
