“Why?”
“Because I needed to make sure Lucas actually left.”
Something cold moved through my chest.
“He left,” I said. “He got on the plane.”
“To San Diego,” she replied.
I closed my eyes.
Not Zurich.
Not even Palm Springs directly.
San Diego.
“He had a connection,” she continued. “A private car booked from there. Palm Springs by evening.”
I tightened my grip on the phone. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve been following his arrangements for six weeks.”
The room seemed suddenly smaller.
I looked at the laptop again. The bank screen had dimmed. The confirmation button was still there, waiting like a trap.
“Grace,” I said slowly, “you have about ten seconds to explain why I shouldn’t call the police.”
“You probably should,” she said. “Eventually.”
“Eventually?”
“Not before you look in your safe.”
My eyes shifted toward the hallway.
We had a safe in the back of the coat closet. Fireproof, heavy, bolted into the floor. Lucas kept passports there, insurance documents, property papers, birth certificates. I hadn’t opened it in months.
“What’s in my safe?”
“That depends on what he removed.”
I swallowed.
“Removed?”
“Lucas was at your house yesterday afternoon while you were at the dentist.”
