Chapter 6
Abigail did not sleep that night.
She lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Replaying every word from the hospital room. Every gesture. Every pause.
He knew something was off.
She had been too calm. Too composed. The old Abigail would have been hysterical at the news of a two-hundred-thousand-dollar treatment. She would have been on the phone begging, borrowing, stealing.
Instead, she had offered hope. And Spencer had smelled it.
At 3:17 AM, she got up and went to the kitchen.
Made coffee. Sat at the table. Spread the papers Cole had given her across the wood.
Bank statements.
Every withdrawal from the past year. Each one corresponding to a new “crisis.” A new “specialist.” A new “experimental drug.”
She added them up.
One hundred and seventy-eight thousand dollars.
Almost her entire life savings. Plus the second mortgage. Plus the twelve thousand from her brother. Plus the jewelry. Plus the sewing machine. Plus every penny of Thomas's life insurance that she hadn't already spent on the house.
Two hundred and forty-three thousand dollars total.
And they wanted two hundred and twenty thousand more.
They were going to bleed her dry. Leave her with nothing. Then Spencer would “recover,” move away, and start over with someone new.
Just like he had done to Naomi's aunt.
Abigail picked up her phone. Called Cole. He answered on the second ring.
“Did he buy it?” Cole asked. No hello. No “sorry to wake you.”
“Almost. But he's suspicious. He asked about the good news I mentioned yesterday. He knows I'm hiding something.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Paranoid people make mistakes, Abigail. If he thinks you're sitting on a fortune, he'll push harder. He'll show his hand. He might even get careless. That's what we want.”
Cole paused.
“Did the recorder work?”
“I forgot to check. I was too—”
“Check it now. And send me whatever is on it. I need to hear his tone. Henderson's too. There might be clues we're missing.”
Abigail found the tiny device. Plugged it into her laptop.
The recording started with the rustle of her clothes as she walked down the hallway. Then the click of the door. Then Spencer's voice.
Weak. Fragile. Perfect.
She fast-forwarded through her own parts. Listened to Henderson. Listened to the way they bounced off each other. The practiced rhythm of their lie.
And then—at the fifty-three-minute mark—something she had missed entirely.
After Henderson left. After she had kissed Spencer's forehead and walked toward the door.
She had been almost out of the room when Spencer spoke again. She remembered that.
But what she hadn't heard—what the microphone had picked up because it was closer to the bed—was what he did immediately after she left.
The rustle of sheets.
The beep of a phone call being placed.
And then Spencer's voice. Strong. Healthy. Nothing like the dying man she had been sitting with two seconds earlier.
“She's hiding something, Brenda. Big money. I can smell it. She mentioned an old friend of her husband's. An investment. And yesterday she said she had good news. Whatever it is, it's enough to pay for the whole Zurich scam and then some.”
A pause. Brenda's voice came through. Muffled. But understandable.
“What if it's not real? What if she's just saying that to keep you calm?”
“Then we squeeze harder. Friday's deadline still stands. If she doesn't have the two-twenty by then, we go to Plan B.”
“Plan B is risky.”
“Riskier than going to jail for fraud? If she won't pay, we use the deed. We force the sale of the house. We take our half and disappear before she figures out it was forged. Either way, we walk away with enough to start over in Costa Rica like we planned.”
Another pause.
“Spencer… what if she finds out about the other thing? About your dad?”
The room went quiet on the recording.
For ten full seconds, nothing.
Then Spencer's voice. Cold. Flat. Nothing human in it at all.
“She'll never find out. I made sure of that. And if she does… well. Dead people don't ask questions.”
Abigail dropped the coffee mug.
It shattered on the linoleum. Hot brown liquid spread across the floor like blood.
Dead people don't ask questions.
She played it again. And again. And again.
Dead people don't ask questions.
It wasn't just fraud anymore.
It was a threat.
“Cole,” she said into the phone. Her voice barely a whisper. “You need to hear this. Right now.”
---
By nine o'clock that morning, they were all back in Cole's office.
Abigail. Naomi. Cole.
The recording played one more time.
Dead people don't ask questions.
Naomi went pale. Cole's jaw tightened so hard Abigail could see the muscle working.
“Okay,” Cole said when it ended. He was standing now. Pacing. “This changes everything. We're not just dealing with grifters anymore. We're dealing with people who have killed before. Or are fully prepared to kill now.”
He stopped pacing. Looked directly at Abigail.
“The 'other thing' he mentioned. About your husband. What do you think that means?”
Abigail shook her head.
“Thomas died three years ago. Pancreatic cancer. It was fast. Six weeks from diagnosis to the end. Spencer was with him at the hospital when he coded. I was out getting coffee. By the time I got back—”
Her voice broke.
“By the time I got back, he was gone.”
The room was silent.
Naomi reached across the table and covered Abigail's hand with her own.
“Abigail,” she said gently. “Did Thomas have life insurance?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It paid off most of the house. The rest went to medical bills.”
“Who was the beneficiary?”
“Me. Of course. But Spencer was there. He handled all the paperwork. Said I was too grief-stricken to deal with it. I signed whatever he put in front of me.”
Cole was already typing on his computer. Fast.
“Three years ago. Pancreatic cancer. Fast decline. Spencer handling everything. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
He looked up.
“Abigail, I need you to get me Thomas's medical records. Everything. From the first doctor's visit to the death certificate. I don't care if you have to fight the hospital for them. I need to see who the attending physician was. I need to see every medication he was given. Every test result.”
“You don't think—” Abigail couldn't finish the sentence.
“I think your son has been doing this a lot longer than eight months. I think three years ago, when he realized how easy it was to get money out of tragedy… he stopped waiting for tragedy to happen naturally.”
The words hung in the air.
Thomas.
Her Thomas. Kind. Funny. The man who had brought her coffee every morning for thirty-eight years. Who had danced with her in the kitchen when the radio played their song. Who had loved Spencer more than life itself.
Had Spencer killed him?
For two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?
“No,” Abigail said. Standing up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor. “No. That's impossible. He loved his father. They were inseparable. He wouldn't—he couldn't—”
“People do worse things for less money, Abigail,” Cole said softly. “And we already know he doesn't have a conscience. We heard him. Dead people don't ask questions. That's not the first time he's thought that way. You can hear it in his voice. It's familiar. Comfortable.”
Abigail sank back into the chair.
“What do we do?”
“Same plan. But faster. And more careful. You go back to the hospital today. You tell him the investment came through. But there's a catch. The money is tied up in escrow. It won't be available until next week. You offer him a down payment. Fifty thousand dollars. Cash. Enough to keep them salivating. Enough to make them decide to wait for the big score instead of going to Plan B.”
“Fifty thousand dollars I don't have.”
“Naomi will lend it to you. From her aunt's estate. We'll get it back. With interest.”
Naomi nodded. “Whatever you need.”
Cole leaned across the desk.
“Here's the dangerous part. You have to make them believe the twenty million is real. You have to drop hints. Leave things lying around that they'll find. A lottery ticket stub. A bank statement with a huge balance. Something that confirms their suspicions. But nothing they can actually use. Yet.”
“Why?”
“Because if they believe there's twenty million on the table, they won't kill you for the two-twenty or the house. They'll wait. They'll string you along. They'll play the long game. And that gives us time to prove what they did to Thomas.”
He handed her a folded piece of paper.
“Here's a name. Marcus Green. He's a private investigator. Former cop. The best in the state. I've already called him. He'll be waiting for you at his office at noon. Give him everything. Tell him everything. He'll dig into Henderson. Brenda. And Thomas's death. If there's a body buried in Spencer's past, Marcus will find it.”
Abigail took the paper. Her fingers were numb.
“One more thing,” Cole said. “From this moment on, you do not go anywhere alone. Not to the hospital. Not to the grocery store. Not even to get the mail. Naomi will stay with you. Or Marcus will send someone. These people have already threatened your life. Don't give them the opportunity to follow through.”
Abigail looked from Cole to Naomi.
Two strangers.
May you like
The only people she could trust in the whole world.
“Okay,” she said. “Let's do it.”
