Margaret had never boarded her flight.

She had checked into a hotel in Vancouver… under her maiden name.

And she wasn’t alone.

She was there with a man.

When I saw the photo Marcus sent me, my blood ran cold.

It was my doctor.

The man who had been prescribing my medication for years.

The same pills that had been making me sick.

The pieces snapped together with terrifying clarity.

This wasn’t paranoia.

This was a plan.

I went to the hotel.

I didn’t confront them.

I listened.

Through the door, I heard Margaret’s voice—light, excited.

“I can’t believe how easy this is,” she said.

The doctor laughed.