Her expression softened into something almost tender.
“It means your husband was not the only Mercer who knew how to record a performance.”
Then she was gone.
I waited three seconds.
Five.
Ten.
Then I slammed my hand against the call button until pain flashed white behind my eyes.
The officers rushed in. Dr. Reed arrived behind them. Detective Voss was called. The room erupted.
But Lydia Mercer had already vanished.
The cameras on the sixth floor had gone dark for seven minutes.
The nurse assigned to my room remembered nothing after accepting coffee from a woman in a cream coat.
The phone remained on my bed.
On it, Grant’s video would not play.
The messages had erased themselves.
All except one.
A final line, white text on a black screen:
ASK CLARA WHAT SHE DID BEFORE SHE MARRIED GRANT.
Detective Voss read it twice.
Then she looked at me.
