The Last Look

I took a screenshot of the social media post and sent it to Houston Rodgers.

I didn't confront him.

Thirty seconds later, he called.

"You saw Heather's post?" His tone was relaxed, even slightly amused. "I was just about to tell you about it.

"She went to Daim alone to do some fieldwork. She bought a standing-room-only ticket, which meant seventeen hours on her feet. You know she has low blood sugar. She could pass out standing that long. There was an extra sleeper ticket..."

"An extra one?"

"Yeah, I managed to snag two tickets in total. One was for you to go back to Daim and visit your grandmother, and I bought the other for her while I was at it."

While he was at it?

I tightened my grip on the phone, keeping my voice even. "Houston, I only saw one ticket. Heather's. Where's the one you said you'd gotten for me?"

He paused for two seconds. "I got the tickets, but then I thought about it. You're in better health than she is. You can manage one night in a seat. So I gave her the sleeper ticket first. I'll figure out how to get another one for you—"

"Tickets for the holiday sell out a month in advance. You expect me to get one now?"

"Then leave a couple of days later. It'll be easier to get tickets after the holiday rush. Your grandmother's condition is chronic. She's had the same problems for years. It's not like..."

"The hospital issued a critical condition notice," I interrupted. "This afternoon."

His breathing stopped for a moment. "Critical condition? Didn't you say it was just her usual health problems acting up?"

"I sent you three messages last night, with photos of the hospital's diagnosis attached. You didn't reply to a single one."

He fell silent for a few seconds. I heard him fumbling with his phone on the other end.

"I really have been busy these past few days. I didn't notice the messages... But don't panic. I'll ask my colleagues if anyone's heading that way and can give you a ride."

"You promised me," I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "You said you'd drive me home yourself."

"I can't get away right now. The project's at a critical stage."

"New Year's Eve, three years ago."

He didn't respond.

"A heavy snowfall had blocked the mountain roads, and Grandma Yvette's asthma flared up. You carried an oxygen tank on your back and walked six miles through the snow from town to get her home."

I could hear my own heartbeat, each thud heavy and muffled. "Back then, you told Grandma Yvette, 'You're my grandmother too. From now on, I'll take care of you.'"

A long silence stretched across the line.

"Danielle, there's no point dragging up the past."

"I'm not dragging up the past. I'm asking you a question. Is the man who walked six miles through the snow the same man who casually gave away the ticket I desperately needed to get home today?"

He drew a breath, his voice turning impatient. "Can you stop blowing this out of proportion? It's one ticket. Is it really that big a deal? I told you I'd figure something out."

My phone screen lit up. It was a message from Grandma Yvette's attending physician.

[Danielle, your grandmother's condition isn't looking good tonight. Where are you now?]

My fingertips began to tremble.

I hung up on Houston and opened a car rental app. Driving from here to Daim would take at least fourteen hours, even by the fastest route.

I selected a car and proceeded to the payment page.

Insufficient balance.

I stared at the red words on the screen, then opened my banking app.

The previous month, Houston had lowered the spending limit on our joint account, claiming, "The project's cash flow is tight right now. We need to cut back."

The limit was $750. $720 had been withdrawn three days earlier.

The recipient was a ticketing platform.