“Mrs. Riley,” Marcus answered, his voice steady and pragmatic. “Naomi told me she made contact. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”
“Is it true?” Abigail’s voice was barely a whisper, strained by tears she refused to shed. “Is any of it real?”
“The illness is fake, Mrs. Riley. The fraud, however, is very real,” Marcus explained clearly. “My brother lost his medical license in another state five years ago for falsifying trial data. Spencer met him through an online investment group. Together, they realized that desperate, loving parents are the easiest targets because they never ask for second opinions when they’re terrified. They’ve done this to two other families, but you were Spencer’s primary, long-term source of revenue.”
A quiet rage began to replace the despair in Abigail’s chest. The grief that had paralyzed her outside Room 12 turned into a cold, sharp clarity. She looked down at the twenty-million-dollar lottery ticket resting on her wooden table. Spencer had viewed her as an endless bank account, completely confident that her love would make her blind forever. He was relying on her unconditional devotion to shield him from accountability.
“What do we need to do to stop them?” Abigail asked, her tone shifting from broken mother to resolute protector of her own life.
“We need proof of direct extortion,” Marcus replied. “They think you’re coming back to the hospital to deliver good news. If you go in there and let them believe you’ve secured funds for his fake ‘treatment,’ Dr. Vance will produce falsified billing statements on the spot. Once those documents are signed and handed to you, the federal fraud charges will stick.”
Abigail stood up, picking up the lottery ticket and carefully placing it inside a secure pocket in her coat. She smoothed down her clothes and wiped her face in the mirror. The woman looking back at her was no longer the fragile mother waiting for bad news in a hospital hallway.
“I’ll be at the hospital in twenty minutes,” Abigail said into the phone. “Make sure the authorities are watching.”
She drove back to St. Jude Community Hospital under the cover of dusk. The familiar smell of antiseptic greeted her as she walked through the sliding doors, but this time, the anxiety that usually tightened her chest was completely gone. She walked briskly down the corridor toward Room 12, stepping past the nurses’ station with a calm, deliberate stride.
When she pushed open the door, Spencer was lying in bed, looking frail beneath the white blankets. Dr. Vance was standing by his side, adjusting an IV line that contained nothing more than saline solution and temporary blood-pressure lowering agents.
“Mom!” Spencer put on a weak, strained smile, his voice trembling with deliberate exhaustion. “I was getting worried. You said you had news?”
Dr. Vance turned, putting on a solemn, professional expression. “Mrs. Riley, we were just discussing Spencer’s next stage of care. His markers are dropping rapidly. If we don’t clear the outstanding balances for his specialized protocol by tomorrow morning, I’m afraid we may lose our window of opportunity.”
Abigail walked to the edge of the bed and looked down at her son. She saw the subtle calculation in his eyes, the subtle glance he exchanged with the doctor, waiting for her to break down and surrender everything she had left.
