Now, the dates of the Miami hotel reservations on my screen lined up perfectly with the day I flew to Munich.
I took the printed receipt from Beatrice, my hand steady despite the sudden rush of anger that made my ears ring.
The hospital hallway at three in the morning was completely empty except for a security guard walking a slow lap near the elevators. I leaned against the cold painted cinderblock wall and dialed Julian’s personal cell number.
Julian had been my closest friend since our days at Columbia, and he knew the exact structure of my engineering business and my personal assets.
He answered on the fourth ring, his voice crisp and clear despite the hour.
“David,” Julian said. “You should be in Munich. What is wrong?”
“I am at Methodist Hospital,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Maya has a severe systemic infection. She is on an IV.”
