It was the glance of a child checking whether she was being overheard.
Marcus lowered his phone.
“Lily,” he said, more carefully now.
“What is it?”
His daughter was still holding onto him, her face half-hidden against his shirt so whoever was in the kitchen could not see her mouth moving.
Then she whispered the sentence that ended one version of Marcus Vance’s life and began another.
“When you travel,” she whispered, “Sarah puts drops in my juice.”
Marcus froze.
Sarah had been his wife for ten months.
“What drops?” he said, keeping his voice low, matching his daughter’s caution even though he did not yet understand it.
“She says they’re vitamins,” Lily whispered.
“But then I feel funny.
I can’t sit still.
And she starts recording me.”
A cold weight began forming in the middle of Marcus’s chest.
He slowly dropped to one knee so that he was eye-level with his daughter and she could see his face.
