My name is Audrey Collins. I went home on my lunch break because something didn’t sit right with me.
For three days, my husband, Gavin Prescott, had claimed he was too sick to work—coughing weakly under a gray blanket while I rushed back to my job at Riverside Medical Center feeling guilty for leaving him alone. That afternoon, I bought chicken soup and ginger ale, determined to prove I was still being a supportive wife.
I parked down the street so the garage wouldn’t alert him and slipped inside quietly.
I expected coughing.
Instead, I heard Gavin’s voice—steady, controlled, completely healthy.
“I told you the timeline,” he said. “She can’t suspect anything before Friday.”
A woman’s voice answered sharply through the speaker.
“Then stop stalling. You promised the deed and the confirmation.”
My pulse slammed in my ears. I edged closer and saw him pacing, upright and strong, sunlight on his face, no sign of illness.
“I’ve already moved the money,” he said calmly. “Let me handle the rest.”
Money. Deed. Friday.
“She’s here,” he muttered suddenly. “I have to go.”
