I watched his face.

I watched the way his eyes darted to the floor, then back to my face.

He had a small scratch near his collarbone, barely visible under his unbuttoned shirt.

“The storm was relentless,” he added, shaking his head. “I was stuck at the airport terminal for twenty-four hours.”

I reached over to the bedside table.

My hand was steady.

I picked up my phone and unlocked the screen.

I opened the photo gallery and turned the screen toward him.

“This was taken at the Shoreline Lounge in Miami Beach,” I said.

The photo showed Victor sitting at a candlelit outdoor table.

Brooke was sitting next to him, her hand resting on his knee.

The digital timestamp at the bottom of the image read: *October 14, 10:14 PM.*

It was the exact time he claimed to be waiting in an airport terminal in the middle of a torrential downpour.

Victor stared at the screen.

The color drained from his face, leaving his skin a dull, chalky gray.

“Claire, let me explain,” he whispered.

“The weather in Miami was seventy-eight degrees and clear,” I said.