Chapter 8
Friday morning.
Abigail stood in the parking lot of St. Jude Community Hospital.
In her purse was an envelope. Fifty thousand dollars in cash. Naomi's money. Tens and twenties. Banded neatly. Heavy. Real.
Green had given her a new recorder. Smaller than the last. Undetectable. And a panic button on her keychain. One press, and his team would be inside the hospital in under two minutes.
“Remember,” Green had said that morning. “You're not the victim anymore. You're the bait. Act like the money means nothing to you. Like you have plenty more where that came from. Arrogance is what will take them down.”
Abigail took a breath.
Walked inside.
The elevator ride to the third floor took forever.
She walked down the hallway. Past the nurses' station. Past Room 10. Past Room 11.
And stopped outside Room 12.
The door was closed.
She could hear voices inside.
Spencer. Henderson. And Brenda.
All three of them. Together.
Abigail pressed herself against the wall. The recorder was already running.
“—fifty thousand today,” Henderson was saying. “That's the down payment. But we need the rest by Friday next week. No more delays. The DA is sniffing around my office. I don't know how much longer I can cover my tracks.”
“Relax,” Spencer said. His voice was strong. Bored. “She'll have it. She's hooked. I can see it in her eyes. She thinks she's saving me. She'd sell her soul if I asked her to.”
Brenda spoke up. Her voice higher. Nervous.
“What if she doesn't? What if this 'investment' falls through? Then what?”
“Then we execute Plan B,” Spencer said. “We force the sale of the house. Take our half. And we disappear. Tonight if we have to. But I'm telling you—the investment is real. She wouldn't have mentioned it if it wasn't. She's terrible at lying. Always has been.”
“Still,” Henderson said. “I don't like waiting. Every day we stay here is another day we could get caught. I say we take the fifty, take the house, and run. Let her keep her imaginary investment.”
“Because the investment isn't imaginary!” Spencer snapped. “I went through her purse yesterday when she was in the bathroom. She had a lottery ticket stub in there. Not the winning one—she's too smart for that. But a receipt from the same store where the winning ticket was sold. Same date. Same time. Abigail bought the winner, Marcus. I know she did. Twenty million dollars. Tax free. And it's mine.”
Abigail's hand flew to her mouth.
He had gone through her purse.
He knew.
Not everything. But enough.
“Twenty million,” Henderson breathed. The greed was thick in his voice. “Jesus Christ.”
“Exactly. So we wait. We play along. We let her think she's in control. Next Friday, she brings the rest of the money. We tell her the treatment worked. I discharge Spencer. He goes home. He 'recovers.' And slowly—over the next six months—he convinces her to sign everything over to him. Power of attorney. The lottery. The house. All of it. And when we have every last penny… then we disappear. To Costa Rica. Like we planned.”
Brenda made a small sound.
“And what about her? What do we do with Abigail?”
The room went quiet.
Then Spencer laughed. A soft, cold sound that made Abigail's blood freeze in her veins.
“Abigail has a very weak heart, Brenda. Always has. The stress of my illness… the excitement of the lottery… it'll be too much for her. One night, she'll go to sleep and simply not wake up. Tragic. But these things happen. Especially to women her age with high blood pressure.”
Henderson chuckled.
“An overdose of her own heart medication. Easy. Clean. No autopsy. The death certificate writes itself.”
“Exactly,” Spencer said. “And with Abigail gone, I inherit everything. No waiting. No lawyers. No power of attorney. Just twenty million dollars. And a one-way ticket to paradise.”
Abigail could not breathe.
They had planned it all.
Every step. Every lie. Every death.
Thomas first. Then Naomi's aunt. Then her.
And they were so close. So close to getting away with all of it.
She stepped away from the door.
Wiped the tears from her face.
Fixed her expression.
And knocked.
The voices inside stopped instantly.
Thirty seconds later, the door opened.
Brenda stood there. Nurse's uniform. Fake smile. Her eyes were red. Like she had been crying.
“Mrs. Riley! Thank goodness you're here. Spencer has been asking for you. Dr. Henderson just stopped by to check on him. The news isn't good, I'm afraid.”
Abigail walked past her.
Into the lion's den.
Spencer was back in character. Pale. Sweating. The oxygen tubes. The IV.
Henderson stood at the foot of the bed. Looking concerned. Professional.
Three monsters. All wearing masks.
“Mom,” Spencer whispered. “Thank God. I thought you weren't coming.”
Abigail sat beside him. Took his cold hand.
“I'm here, baby. I'm right here. And I have good news. The investment came through. The first payment is in my purse.”
She saw the three of them exchange a look.
Quick. Almost imperceptible. But Abigail saw it now. She saw everything.
“Really?” Spencer breathed. “How much?”
“Fifty thousand. Enough to secure the treatment. Dr. Henderson, can we speak privately? About the payment plan for the rest?”
Henderson nodded. “Of course. Brenda, could you give us a moment?”
Brenda left. But not before glancing at Spencer. A silent message passing between them.
Abigail pulled the envelope from her purse.
Handed it to Henderson.
He took it. Weighed it in his hand. Opened it. Counted quickly. His eyes lit up when he realized it was real.
“Fifty thousand exactly,” Abigail said. “The remaining one hundred and seventy will be transferred to the clinic's account next Friday. As soon as the escrow clears.”
“Escrow?” Henderson asked. Frowning.
“Old friend of Thomas's. He doesn't trust banks. Likes to do things through lawyers. It's just paperwork. A formality. The money is there. I've seen the bank statement.”
She reached into her purse. Pulled out a piece of paper.
A fake bank statement. Cole had made it that morning. A checking account. Balance: twenty million, four hundred and seventeen thousand, two hundred and sixty-two dollars and eighteen cents.
She let them look. Just for three seconds. Then put it away.
Spencer's eyes were glazed. Like he was already spending the money.
“Next Friday,” he said. “That's only seven days.”
“Seven days,” Abigail repeated. Smiling. “And then you get on that plane to Zurich. And you get better. And we'll never have to worry about anything ever again.”
She leaned over and kissed his forehead.
He didn't flinch. He was already somewhere else. On a beach. With a drink. And all her money.
“I'll leave you two alone,” Henderson said. Tucking the envelope into his suit jacket. “I have paperwork to file. Abigail… thank you. For Spencer's sake. You're doing the right thing.”
He left.
Abigail sat in silence for a minute. Holding Spencer's hand.
“Mom?” he said. Weakly. Still performing.
“Yes, baby?”
“That bank statement… twenty million dollars? Is that real?”
Abigail laughed. The warm, indulgent laugh of a mother with a silly son.
“Of course it's real. Did you think I was lying to you? The investment paid off bigger than I ever dreamed. We're going to be fine, Spencer. More than fine. But you have to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“You can't tell anyone. Not Brenda. Not Dr. Henderson. Not even your friends. If word gets out, people will come after us. Lawyers. Tax people. Long-lost relatives. We have to be careful. Just you and me. Okay?”
Spencer squeezed her hand. Hard.
“Just you and me, Mom. I promise.”
Liar.
Abigail stood up.
“I have to go. I have a meeting with the lawyers about the escrow. I'll be back tomorrow with dinner. Your favorite—meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”
She walked to the door.
“Mom?”
She turned.
Spencer was watching her. The mask was gone. Just for a second. And in his eyes, she saw it.
Not love.
Not gratitude.
A predator watching his prey. Counting the days until the kill.
“I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, baby.”
She walked out.
Down the hall.
Into the elevator.
And only when the doors closed did she press the panic button.
Not because she was in danger.
But because it was over.
May you like
The bait was taken. The hook was set.
Now all they had to do was reel them in.
