Chapter 7
Marcus Green's office was above a laundromat.
The air smelled like detergent and fabric softener. A nice change from pizza and regret.
Green himself was in his sixties. Broad shoulders. Gray hair in a crew cut. A nose that had clearly been broken at least twice. He shook Abigail's hand with a grip like a vise.
“Cole called. Told me the basics. Sit. Tell me the rest. And don't leave anything out. The smallest detail could be the one that breaks this whole thing open.”
So Abigail told him.
Everything.
The lottery ticket. The hospital room. The forged deed. The recording. The threat. And finally—her voice cracking—the suspicion about Thomas.
Green said nothing. Just listened. Took notes in a small spiral notebook. His eyes never left her face.
When she finished, he leaned back.
“Okay. Here's how we're going to play this. First, I'm putting a twenty-four-hour tail on Spencer. On Henderson. On Brenda the nurse. Everywhere they go, we go. Every phone call they make, we record. Every person they meet, we photograph. If they so much as buy a pack of gum, I want to know the flavor.”
He flipped a page in his notebook.
“Second, I'm pulling Thomas's medical records myself. Hospitals hate giving them to family members. They drag their feet. They find excuses. But they don't mess with me. I still have friends in the records department. I'll have everything by tomorrow morning.”
“Then what?”
“Then we dig. Three years ago, Spencer was working at a car dealership in Ohio. Quit suddenly. Moved back home two weeks before Thomas got sick. Funny timing, don't you think?”
Abigail had never thought about it.
“He said he missed us. That the job wasn't working out.”
“Sure he did. And I'm the Queen of England. I'll check his bank records from that period. See if he had debts. Gambling. Drugs. Women. People do desperate things when they're desperate for money.”
Green stood. Walked to the window. Watched a woman pull sheets from a dryer across the street.
“One thing bothers me. Naomi told you he did this to her aunt three years ago. In Cleveland. Same time he was supposedly working at the car dealership in Ohio. Cleveland's only an hour from where he was. You see the problem?”
Abigail's blood ran cold.
“He was doing both at the same time.”
“Bingo. While he was waiting for your husband to die and the insurance money to clear, he was driving up to Cleveland once a week to bleed Naomi's aunt dry. Two marks. Same time. Same playbook. The man is a professional. He's been honing this craft for a long time.”
He turned back to her.
“Which means he's dangerous. Really dangerous. People who can do that to their own father… to women who love them… there's no line they won't cross. So you listen to me carefully, Abigail. Nothing is more important than your safety. Not the money. Not justice. Not even the truth. You get even a hint that something is wrong—you run. You call Cole. You call me. You don't try to be a hero. Heroes get buried.”
Abigail nodded.
“I understand.”
“Good. Now go home. Pack a bag. You're staying with Naomi for a while. Your house is compromised. They know where you live. They have keys, for God's sake—Spencer has had a key since he was sixteen. We don't know what they've planted. Bugged phones. Cameras. We're going to sweep the place tonight. Until then, you don't step foot inside alone.”
---
Naomi's apartment was small. Clean. Filled with books.
Abigail had never been inside a home that felt so… peaceful. No photographs of grifters. No ghosts of dead husbands. Just books and plants and sunlight through the windows.
“Make yourself at home,” Naomi said. “I'll make tea.”
Abigail sat on the couch. Stared at her hands.
They had been doing so much lately. Holding lottery tickets. Signing papers. Recording conversations. Planning how to take down her own son.
“Naomi,” she said. “Why are you really doing this? You said it was for your aunt. But this is… a lot. Risking your job. Your safety. Everything.”
Naomi brought two mugs to the coffee table. Sat down. For a long time, she said nothing.
Then she pulled her hoodie down off her shoulder.
On her upper arm, there was a tattoo. Small. Simple. A heart with two names inside: Eleanor + Naomi.
“Eleanor was my aunt,” she said. “But she was more than that. My mom died when I was seven. Dad took off. Eleanor raised me. She was my whole world. And when Spencer came along… she was so happy. Finally, she said. Someone to take care of me when I'm gone.”
Naomi's voice broke. Just a little.
“I tried to warn her. I told her Spencer was trouble. I saw the way he looked at her bank statements. The way he flinched whenever I asked about his 'treatments.' But she wouldn't listen. She said I was jealous. That I didn't want her to be happy. By the time she realized I was right, it was too late. She had nothing left. No house. No savings. No pride.”
Naomi traced the tattoo with her finger.
“She died in my arms. In a one-bedroom apartment I could barely afford. The last thing she said to me was, 'Don't let him do this to anyone else.'”
She looked up. Her eyes were dry now. Hard.
“So that's why I'm doing this. For her. And for every other woman who's ever loved too much and trusted the wrong person. That includes you, Abigail. You didn't do anything wrong. You just loved your son. That's not a crime. What he's doing—that's the crime.”
Abigail reached across the table. Took Naomi's hand.
For the first time since she had stood outside Room 12, she didn't feel completely alone.
---
That night, Green called.
His voice was different. Tighter.
“Abigail. I have Thomas's medical records. You need to sit down.”
She was already sitting. Beside Naomi on the couch.
“Tell me.”
“First diagnosis was pancreatic cancer. Standard treatment. Chemotherapy. Radiation. Everything by the book. For the first four weeks, he was responding. His numbers were improving. The doctors were cautiously optimistic.”
Green paused.
“Then Spencer moved back. Suddenly, Thomas took a turn for the worse. New symptoms. Organ failure. Rapid decline. He was dead ten days later.”
“Who was his doctor?” Abigail asked. Already knowing the answer.
“Dr. Marcus Henderson.”
The room spun.
Henderson.
The same doctor. Three years ago. Treating Thomas. Signing the death certificate. While Spencer was right there.
“Green… what are the odds? That the same doctor who's scamming me now was also my husband's doctor three years ago?”
“Less than one in a million. Abigail, there's more. The medication Thomas was given in his final week. Massive doses of morphine. Way beyond what's standard for end-of-life care. The order was written by Henderson. Administered by a traveling nurse who has since disappeared. And who do you think authorized the increased dosage on the family consent form?”
Abigail didn't want to hear it. But she had to.
“Spencer.”
“Spencer. His signature is right there. And get this—Henderson got a consulting fee from the insurance company for 'expert review' of Thomas's case. Fifteen thousand dollars. Paid into his personal account two days after the death certificate was filed.”
Fifteen thousand for Henderson. Two hundred and fifty thousand for Spencer.
Thomas's life had a price tag. And they had collected every penny.
“I'm going to be sick,” Abigail whispered.
“I know. And I'm sorry. But you needed to know. This isn't just fraud anymore, Abigail. This is murder. Two people are dead because of them. And you're next if we don't move fast.”
Green was quiet for a second.
“Here's what we're going to do. Tomorrow, you go to the hospital like we planned. Give them the fifty thousand. Tell them the rest is coming next week. Keep them hooked. In the meantime, I'm going to the district attorney. I have enough for a warrant on Henderson. Financial records. The altered tests from your son's case. And now this—Thomas's records. If I can get an exhumation order, if we can prove the morphine overdose… Spencer and Henderson are going away for the rest of their natural lives.”
“Exhumation?” Abigail's voice cracked. “You want to dig up my husband?”
“It's the only way to be sure. To prove beyond any doubt that he was murdered. Abigail, I know this is hard. But think about it. If they killed Thomas, they got away with it. Three years of freedom. Three years of spending his money. And they would have gotten away with killing you too. Is Thomas resting in peace knowing his killers are free? Or would he want justice? For him. For you. For everyone else they've hurt?”
Abigail closed her eyes.
She saw Thomas's face. The way he used to smile at her across the breakfast table. The way he had held her when her mother died. The way he had loved Spencer—loved him blindly, fiercely, with every fiber of his being.
And she saw Spencer. At five years old. Sitting on Thomas's shoulders at the zoo. Screaming with laughter.
How had that little boy become this monster?
“Do it,” she said. Her voice stronger than she felt. “Dig him up. Get the proof. Whatever it takes.”
“Good. I'll handle the paperwork. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be the longest day of your life.”
He hung up.
Abigail looked at Naomi.
“They killed him,” she said. “They killed Thomas. And Spencer watched. Spencer helped. Spencer signed the papers.”
Naomi put her arm around her. Held her while she cried.
Not for Thomas. Not really. He was gone. Nothing could bring him back.
She cried for the years she had lost. For the son she had never really known. For the family that had never existed except in her own mind.
And when the tears were gone, something new took their place.
Not grief.
Not sadness.
White-hot, unshakable rage.
May you like
They had taken everything from her.
Now she was going to take everything from them.
