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.