At 12:17 a.m., my daughter-in-law slipped something into my luggage, believing I was asleep. Then she whispered into her phone, “It’s in her carry-on. Tell airport security at six.”
I kept my eyes shut.
I’m Margaret Wilson, sixty-three, a retired federal fraud investigator, and apparently someone people find remarkably easy to underestimate.
Earlier that evening, I’d informed my son Ethan and his wife Brittany that my flight to Denver departed at seven thirty. I was traveling to visit my younger sister following her surgery.
“Don’t oversleep, Margaret,” Brittany said, smiling above her wineglass. “Airport security can be terribly strict.”
Her smile unsettled me.
For three months, Brittany had urged me to sell my lakefront home, a beautiful property my late husband and I bought thirty years ago.
“You’re getting older,” she repeatedly reminded me. “Managing property is complicated. Ethan should handle everything.”
Ethan usually looked down at his shoes.
