At 3 AM, the cold glow of my phone screen illuminated my face. I, Juliet Martin, stared at that transaction record, my fingertips going numb.
Purchase details: Washington Hotel Executive Suite. Transaction time: 8 PM last night.
My husband Bruce Gilbert is a detective, and he was on duty last night.
I gripped my phone, my knuckles turning white.
I sent him a message: [I just saw your credit card statement. You stayed at a hotel last night?]
Almost instantly, he replied: [Police station had overtime work. They arranged accommodation for everyone. Forgot to tell you.]
I stared at those words and suddenly smiled.
Washington Hotel is on the west side of the city, the police station on the east side—spanning the entire city, not even close to being on the way.
I didn't press further. I quietly opened my banking app, copied the merchant address from the transaction record, and sent it to my best friend Lainey Spencer, who works as a private investigator.
Two seconds later, she replied: [Hold on, I'll definitely get to the bottom of this for you.]
