She turned slowly. Her warm hazel eyes narrowed for the briefest moment. Yesterday, I would have mistaken it for concern.
Today, after Frank’s warning, it looked like calculation.
“Don’t stress yourself, darling,” she said sweetly. “You know what the doctor said about your heart.”
“I’ll be fine.”
At The Velvet Elm, Frank didn’t meet me at the front. He waited by the service entrance in the alley, pale and silent, then led me downstairs to the basement security room. The air smelled of old grease and cleaning chemicals.
“If I show you this,” he said, his hand hovering over the mouse, “you need to promise me you won’t do anything reckless. This isn’t just a family problem. It’s a conspiracy.”
“Play it.”
The screen flickered.
It was security footage from the VIP bridal lounge, time-stamped two nights earlier—the night of my son’s wedding reception.
The door opened.
Margaret walked in.
She was not using the silver-handled cane she leaned on at church. Her steps were strong, smooth, and completely pain-free.
