By the time I reached the lobby, my body felt like it belonged to someone else. I sat heavily in a chair near the front desk, pretending to scroll my phone, pretending my life wasn’t cracking open.
Marcus arrived twenty minutes later—short, stocky, gray-haired, eyes sharp as broken glass. He sat beside me like we were old friends and spoke low.
“I already called police,” he said. “But we need something airtight. Your word helps. A recording helps more.”
I stared at him. “You can record them?”
Marcus’s mouth twitched. “I’ve got ways. And I’ve got Detective Sarah Morrison on this. She’s good.”
Detectives arrived—plain clothes, calm faces, listening to my story without the skepticism I feared. They didn’t laugh. They didn’t dismiss Sophie. They asked specifics, wrote notes, looked at the photo of Margaret and Prescott like it confirmed something they’d already suspected.
Detective Morrison looked at me. “We can arrest on what we have,” she said. “But if we catch her administering the drug, it’s airtight.”
My skin crawled. “You want me to go home.”