I asked to be connected to the room.
The line clicked once.
Then a woman answered in a sleepy voice.
“Hello?”
She was trying to sound like she belonged there.
I let the silence stretch just long enough for her confidence to crack.
Then I said, “Sloane, this is the real Mrs. Hawthorne.”
Her breathing changed.
I continued calmly.
“The suite is under my account. The call is being logged. The hotel has my authorization records. And the emerald earrings you are wearing are insured under my name.”
She said nothing.
Behind her, I heard movement.
Grant.
I smiled into the phone.
“Put him on.”
For the first time in six years, Grant Hawthorne sounded afraid.