CHAPTER 3
Abigail stared at the message until her eyes burned.
Naomi.
The name meant nothing to her. No friend, no neighbor, no relative. And yet this stranger knew about the lottery.
Her hands trembled as she typed back: “Who are you?”
Three dots appeared immediately. Then vanished. Then appeared again.
“Someone who has seen what your son is capable of. Someone who tried to stop him before you got hurt.”
Abigail's heart raced. “How do you know about the lottery?”
“I saw you buy the ticket at the corner store. I saw your face when you checked the numbers this morning. And I saw you leave the hospital without going in. You heard him, didn't you?”
The room spun. This woman had been watching her.
“Meet me at the diner on Oak Street. Booth in the back. Thirty minutes. Come alone. And don't you dare tell Spencer you're meeting anyone.”
The message ended. No goodbye. No explanation.
Abigail looked at the lottery ticket on the table. Twenty million dollars that was supposed to fix everything. Now it felt like a bomb with a lit fuse.
She grabbed her purse, slipped the ticket into an envelope, and tucked it into the lining of her coat—the one place Spencer would never think to look.
The drive to the diner took twenty minutes. Every car behind her felt like it was following. Every stranger's face looked like it belonged to someone who meant her harm.
The diner was nearly empty. A few truckers by the counter. An elderly couple sharing pie.
And in the back booth, a woman in her late twenties with dark hair pulled back tight, wearing scrubs that had seen better days.
She looked up when Abigail approached.
“Mrs. Riley. Thank you for coming.”
“Are you Naomi?”
The woman nodded and gestured to the seat across from her. Her eyes were red, like she hadn't slept in days.
“I'm a nurse at St. Jude. I work the night shift on your son's floor.”
Abigail sat down slowly. “You work with Spencer?”
“I've taken care of him for the past four months. And I need you to listen to me very carefully, because what I'm about to tell you could destroy everything you think you know.”
A waitress came over. Abigail ordered coffee. She needed something to hold onto.
When they were alone again, Naomi leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Your son isn't sick, Mrs. Riley. Not the way you think he is.”
The words landed like a punch to the stomach.
“What are you saying?”
“I'm saying the symptoms he describes—the fatigue, the dizziness, the pain—they don't match his test results. His blood work is normal. His scans are clear. Every specialist who has examined him has said the same thing: there's nothing physically wrong with him.”
Abigail shook her head. “That's impossible. He's been in and out of the hospital for months. He can barely walk some days.”
Naomi's eyes filled with tears.
“I've watched him, Mrs. Riley. I've seen what happens when you're not around. The moment you leave the room, he's on his phone, laughing, making plans. He eats more than any patient on the floor. He walks to the vending machine at the end of the hall without assistance. But the second he hears your voice in the hallway—”
She stopped, like the memory pained her.
“The second he hears you, he climbs back into bed. He pulls the covers up. He starts coughing. His whole demeanor changes. It's like watching someone flip a switch.”
Abigail felt cold all over. She thought of the jewelry she'd sold. The sewing machine that had been her mother's most prized possession. The loans she'd taken from people she could never pay back.
“Why would he do that?”
“Because of you,” Naomi said gently. “Because he knows you'll give him anything if he's suffering. He knows your greatest weakness is your love for him. And he's been using it like a weapon.”
The coffee arrived. Abigail didn't touch it.
“There's more,” Naomi said. “The woman he was talking to on the phone today. The one you heard through the door.”
Abigail's breath caught. “You know who she is?”
“Her name is Victoria. She comes to visit him sometimes when you're not there. They're... close. Very close. I've heard them talking about you. About how much money they think they can get.”
Naomi reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She slid it across the table.
“I wrote down everything I've overheard. Dates. Times. Specific things they've said. I know this looks bad. I know you probably want to hate me for telling you. But I couldn't watch him drain you dry anymore. Not when you're such a kind woman. Not when you deserve so much better.”
Abigail looked at the paper but didn't open it.
“Why are you doing this? Why risk your job?”
Naomi's jaw tightened.
“Because my own mother was taken advantage of the same way. By my brother. He drained her savings, convinced her he was in trouble, that he needed her help. By the time she realized what was happening, she had nothing left. She died last year with less than two hundred dollars to her name.”
Her voice cracked.
“I couldn't let that happen to you. Not when I had the power to stop it.”
Abigail finally reached for the paper. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded it.
The first line made her blood run cold:
“Victoria to Spencer: ‘Once we get the shop money, we can finally get that place in Florida. Just a few more weeks of playing sick.’”
The second line was worse:
“Spencer: ‘She'll give it to me. She always does. And if this “good news” she mentioned is actually money? We'll be set for life.’”
Abigail read through every line. Every word was a knife twisting in the wound her son had already opened.
When she finished, she looked up at Naomi.
“What do I do now?”
“First,” Naomi said, “you don't let him know you're onto him. If he suspects anything, he'll change his strategy. He might try to take what he can and disappear.”
“Second?”
“You protect that lottery ticket. That money is your leverage. Your safety. Your future. Don't let anyone pressure you into claiming it before you're ready. And when you do claim it—you make sure every penny is protected legally.”
Abigail thought of the three questions she'd written in her notebook. She now had the answer to the first one.
He had been lying to her for months. Maybe years.
“How far would he go?” she whispered.
Naomi held her gaze.
“Farther than you want to imagine. I've seen the way he talks about you when you're not here. There's no warmth, Mrs. Riley. No affection. Just calculation. Like you're a problem to be solved. Or a resource to be mined.”
She paused, then added the words that would haunt Abigail for weeks.
“If he thought he could get away with it? I don't think he'd stop at lying.”
The diner's door chimed. A group of loud teenagers entered, laughing and pushing each other.
Naomi stood up quickly.
“I have to go. If anyone sees us together, it could put both of us in danger. Take the notes. Read them. And promise me you'll be careful.”
Abigail nodded, unable to speak.
Naomi started to leave, then turned back.
“One more thing. Don't trust anyone connected to your son. Not his friends. Not his business partner. Especially not Victoria. They're all in on it together.”
Then she was gone.
Abigail sat alone in the booth, the paper burning in her hand, the coffee growing cold in front of her.
Outside the window, the sun began to set, painting the sky in colors that used to make her feel peaceful.
Now they just looked like fire.
She pulled out her phone and turned it on.
Thirty-two missed calls. All from Spencer.
And one new voicemail.
She pressed play.
“Mom, where are you? The doctors want to run more tests and they need your approval for the payment plan. It's urgent. Call me as soon as you get this. I'm... I'm scared.”
His voice sounded weak. Fragile. Exactly the way it always did when he wanted something from her.
Abigail deleted the voicemail.
Then she opened her contacts, found the name of a lawyer her late husband had once recommended, and pressed call.
It was time to stop being a mother who gave everything.
May you like
It was time to become a woman who protected what was hers.
---
