And God help me, I pitied him.
Not because he deserved forgiveness.
Because he still did not understand that he had been used.
Melissa Hale had not loved him. She had studied him. Learned his weaknesses. Fed his ego. Pulled him away at precisely the moment Ethan’s fever spiked, precisely the night the doctors found the infection had spread too fast.
My father’s investigator returned at 7:22 a.m.
“The hotel cameras show Melissa leaving the room at 10:03 p.m.,” he said. “Garrett stayed asleep until after midnight.”
Garrett lifted his head. “Asleep?”
The investigator looked at him. “Your bloodwork is being processed. But the empty champagne bottle from the room tested positive for sedatives.”
Garrett froze.
I turned slowly.
“You were drugged?”
He stared at me, horror crawling across his face. “Claire, I don’t remember anything after dinner.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because grief had become so enormous that absurdity was the only shape it could wear.
“You still went with her,” I said.
His eyes filled. “Yes.”
That single honest word destroyed the last piece of our marriage.
My father stood beside the window, his reflection ghostly against the morning rain. “Where is Melissa now?”
The investigator hesitated.
“She’s dead.”
The room stopped breathing.
