Chapter 5
Abigail sat on the cold basement floor and stared at the forged signature.
It looked real.
Too real. The same slant. The same way she crossed her T's and dotted her I's. Someone had practiced. For weeks. Maybe months.
Fifty percent of her home.
The only thing she had left that was truly hers. The house she and Thomas had built together, nail by nail, when they were twenty-two. The house where she had brought Spencer home from the hospital. Where she had held Thomas when the cancer took him.
And now it was half gone.
She climbed the stairs slowly. Each step heavier than the last.
In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water. Her hand shook so badly half of it spilled on the floor.
Her phone buzzed.
Spencer: “Mom? You still coming? The doctors want to talk to us about the new treatment plan. They say time is running out.”
Time is running out.
Three words he had used a hundred times in eight months. Each time, she had panicked. Each time, she had found more money.
Now they tasted like ash.
She typed back: “On my way, baby. Just left the house.”
Then she called Cole.
“They forged the deed,” she said when he answered. Her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears. “Half the house is already his.”
Cole was quiet for three long seconds.
“Okay. That changes things. But not the plan. Actually, it helps. Now we have felony fraud on top of everything else. Do exactly what I said. Go to the hospital. Act normal. But I want you to wear this.”
“Wear what?”
“Naomi is outside your house right now. She has a recording device. Small. Clips to your bra. Nobody will see it. Turn it on before you walk into his room. Everything they say. Every lie. Every performance. We need it all.”
Abigail looked out the window.
Sure enough, Naomi's car was parked at the curb. Lights off. Engine not running.
“Okay,” Abigail said.
She met Naomi at the front door.
The device was tiny. No bigger than a thumbnail.
“Just press this button once,” Naomi whispered. “Red light means it's recording. Don't worry about turning it off. It'll run for six hours. And Abigail—whatever happens in there—remember who you're dealing with. He's not your son anymore. He's a suspect. Act accordingly.”
Abigail clipped the device into place.
“Thank you,” she said.
Naomi nodded. “For my aunt. And for you. Nobody should have to go through this alone.”
The drive to the hospital took twelve minutes.
Abigail practiced her face in the rearview mirror. Tired eyes. Red-rimmed from crying. The face of a mother who had been fighting for too long.
She had that part down. She had been living it for eight months.
The difference was, now she knew she was fighting an enemy, not a disease.
She walked onto Spencer's floor. The same nurse who had seen her that afternoon smiled.
“Welcome back, Mrs. Riley. He's been anxious.”
“Traffic was terrible,” Abigail said. The lie came easily. Too easily. She was learning from the best.
She paused outside Room 12.
Took a breath.
Pressed the record button.
And walked in.
Spencer was propped up in bed. Pale. Skin clammy. An IV in his arm. Oxygen tubes in his nose. He looked like death warmed over.
And Abigail knew every bit of it was makeup and chemistry.
“Mom,” he croaked. Reaching for her hand. “I was so worried. Where have you been?”
She let him take her hand. It was cold. She used to think that was from his illness. Now she knew it was from the air conditioning and the saline dripping into his veins.
“Just running around, baby. Trying to figure out how to pay for this new treatment Dr. Henderson mentioned.”
She sat in the hard plastic chair beside the bed. The same chair she had slept in for dozens of nights.
Spencer's face did the thing it always did. The slight wince. The faraway look. The one that meant he was about to deliver bad news.
“Mom… about that. Dr. Henderson came by an hour ago. He says the insurance won't cover the new protocol. Not unless we pay upfront. The whole amount.”
Abigail's heart raced. Not from fear. From anger. She forced her voice to tremble.
“How much, baby?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
The number hung in the air.
Two hundred thousand dollars.
More than she had ever made in three years of working at the factory. More than the house was worth.
“Two hundred thousand,” she repeated. Letting her voice crack. “Spencer, I don't have that. I borrowed everything I could from your uncle. I sold everything that wasn't nailed down. I don't—”
She let the tears come. Real tears. Not for him. For herself. For the woman she used to be.
Spencer squeezed her hand. His thumb stroked her knuckles. The same gesture he had used since he was five years old and wanted something.
“I know, Mom. I know. And I hate myself for asking. But Dr. Henderson says this is my only shot. Without it… he gives me six weeks. Maybe less.”
He looked away. Stared at the wall.
“Maybe it's better this way. You've given up so much already. I don't want you to lose the house too.”
Hook. Line. Sinker.
It was perfect. If she hadn't known, she would have been reaching for her checkbook already. She would have been calling every person she knew. She would have sold her own kidney if he'd asked.
Now she just wanted to slap him.
Instead, she cried harder.
“Don't you say that. Don't you ever say that. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. Nothing. I'll find the money. I don't know how. But I will.”
Spencer pulled her into an embrace. His hospital gown smelled like antiseptic and the cheap cologne he wore when he went out.
“I knew you would, Mom. You always do. You're the best mother in the whole world.”
Over his shoulder, Abigail saw the door open.
Dr. Henderson walked in.
Mid-forties. Expensive suit. Perfect hair. A smile that didn't reach his eyes.
He carried a tablet computer. Tapped it twice like he was reading something important.
“Abigail. Good. I was hoping to catch you. I've reviewed Spencer's latest labs. And I'm afraid the news isn't good. His liver function is declining rapidly. The medication we've been using is losing effectiveness.”
He leaned against the foot of the bed. Crossed his legs.
“There is, however, a new treatment. Very promising. Only available through a private clinic in Zurich. Results have been extraordinary. But as I'm sure Spencer has told you, it's not covered by insurance. And it requires payment in full before they'll even schedule.”
“Two hundred thousand?” Abigail asked.
Henderson's eyebrows went up. “Two hundred and twenty, actually. But who's counting when a life is on the line?”
Who's counting.
Two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. For a treatment that didn't exist. For a disease that didn't exist.
“When do they need it by?” she asked.
“End of the week. Friday at the latest. After that, the window closes.”
Henderson looked at his watch. The kind that cost more than Abigail's car.
“I have other patients. But please—think about it carefully. For Spencer's sake. And Abigail?”
He met her eyes. Held the gaze just a fraction too long.
“Whatever you do… don't get your hopes up too high. Even with the treatment, his chances are… let's call them guarded.”
He left.
Spencer started coughing. A dry, hacking sound that shook his whole body.
Abigail had heard that cough a thousand times.
Now she noticed it stopped the second the door clicked shut.
“Mom,” he whispered. “I'm scared.”
She stroked his hair. The same way she had when he had nightmares as a little boy.
“I know, baby. I know. But I'm going to fix this. I promise. I have… I have an idea. Something that might give us all the money we need. More than we need.”
Spencer went still beneath her hand.
“What kind of idea?”
“Just something I'm working on. An investment from an old friend of your dad's. He owes me a favor. A big one. If it comes through… we won't have to worry about anything ever again.”
She watched his face carefully.
The pupils dilated. Just slightly. The lips parted. The mask slipped for half a second, and she saw it.
Greed.
Raw, ugly, unashamed greed.
“An investment?” he asked, trying to sound casual. “How much are we talking?”
“Enough,” Abigail said. Standing up. “But it's not a sure thing yet. I don't want to get your hopes up. I'll know more tomorrow. You just… you just rest and get better. Okay?”
She kissed his forehead.
His skin was clammy. Cold.
She walked to the door.
“Mom?”
She turned.
Spencer was watching her. His eyes were different now. Harder. No longer the sick little boy.
“This investment of yours… it wouldn't have anything to do with that 'good news' you mentioned earlier, would it?”
Abigail's blood turned to ice.
She smiled. The same warm, motherly smile she had given him every day of his life.
“Maybe. Now rest. I'll be back in the morning with breakfast. Your favorite—blueberry pancakes.”
She walked out.
Down the hall.
Into the elevator.
And only when the doors closed and she was completely alone did she let the fear show on her face.
He suspected.
May you like
Not everything. Not yet.
But he was close.
