CHAPTER 4
The lawyer's office was in a plain brick building downtown. No fancy windows. No expensive art on the walls. Just bookshelves crammed with legal volumes and a desk covered in papers.
His name was Arthur Chen. He was in his late fifties, with gray hair and eyes that missed nothing.
“Abigail Riley. Your husband was a good man. I'm sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
He gestured for her to sit. “Now, you said on the phone this involves your son and a significant amount of money. Tell me everything.”
So she did.
She told him about Spencer's illness. About the jewelry and the sewing machine. About the loans. About the lottery ticket she held in her purse.
And then she told him about the conversation outside the hospital room.
When she finished, Arthur leaned back in his chair. He didn't look surprised. He looked tired.
“I see cases like this more often than you'd think. Adult children who realize their parents will do anything for them. Who learn that love can be exploited just like anything else.”
He tapped his fingers on the desk.
“First things first. The lottery ticket. Where is it right now?”
“In an envelope, tucked into the lining of my coat.”
“Good. From this moment on, that ticket never leaves your sight. Not for a second. You don't tell anyone else about it. Not family. Not friends. Not even me—until we're ready to do this properly.”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a small safe.
“Actually, I want you to leave it here. In my office. In this safe. Only you and I will have the combination. That way, even if something happens to you—or if someone pressures you—the ticket remains secure.”
Abigail hesitated. That ticket was worth twenty million dollars. Handing it over to someone she'd just met...
But Arthur was her husband's friend. And right now, he was the only person she could trust.
She pulled the envelope from her coat and placed it in his hand.
He locked it in the safe, spun the dial, and closed the drawer.
“Good. Now, about your son. What do you want to do?”
The question hung in the air.
What did she want to do?
Part of her wanted to march into the hospital, scream the truth at him, and never see him again.
Another part—the mother part—wanted to believe it wasn't true. That Naomi was mistaken. That there had to be some explanation.
“I want the truth,” she said finally. “I want to know exactly what he's been doing. And I want to know who else is involved.”
Arthur nodded. “Then we gather evidence. Quietly. Without tipping him off. I'll have someone look into his finances. His business. This Victoria woman Naomi mentioned. And we'll see what we find.”
He paused.
“Are you prepared for what we might discover? Because once we start digging, there's no going back. The truth about your son might be worse than you imagine.”
Abigail thought of Naomi's words: If he thought he could get away with it? I don't think he'd stop at lying.
“I'm prepared.”
“Good. Now, here's what you need to do in the meantime. You go back to being his mother. You act like nothing has changed. You answer his calls. You visit him. You let him think he still has you exactly where he wants you.”
Abigail's stomach turned. “Pretend I still believe him?”
“Exactly. Let him keep performing. Let him keep talking. People who think they're in control get careless. They say things they shouldn't. They make mistakes.”
He slid a small device across the desk.
“This is a voice recorder. It looks like a pen. Keep it in your purse when you visit him. If he says anything incriminating—anything at all—we'll have it.”
She picked up the pen. It felt heavier than it looked.
“And the lottery?”
“We wait. Until we know exactly what we're dealing with. Until we have all the evidence we need. Then we claim it. And we structure it in a way that your son can never touch a single penny unless you choose to give it to him.”
Arthur leaned forward.
“Abigail, listen to me. You are not obligated to give that money to your son. Not after what he's done. You have every right to keep it. To use it for yourself. To start over.”
Tears filled her eyes. “But he's my child.”
“He's an adult who made his choices. Choices that have hurt you deeply. Being a mother doesn't mean you have to be a victim.”
She left his office feeling lighter and heavier at the same time.
The ticket was safe. She had a plan. She had someone on her side.
But now she had to go back to the hospital. She had to look her son in the eye and pretend she hadn't heard his betrayal.
The drive to St. Jude was the longest of her life.
When she walked into Spencer's room, he was lying in bed, his eyes closed, looking pale and weak.
Perfect performance.
He opened his eyes when she entered. “Mom. Where have you been? I was so worried.”
His voice was soft. Tender. The voice of the little boy she used to hold when he had nightmares.
Abigail sat beside his bed and forced herself to take his hand. It was warm. Strong.
“I had some errands to run, sweetheart. I'm sorry I worried you.”
He squeezed her hand. “The doctors want to do another round of treatments. They say it could really help. But it's expensive. I hate asking you, but—”
“We'll figure it out,” she said, cutting him off gently. “Don't you worry about that right now. You just focus on getting better.”
She watched his face carefully. For a split second, she saw it—a flicker of satisfaction. Gone so fast she might have imagined it if she hadn't been looking.
“You're the best mom in the world, you know that?”
She smiled. The kind of smile that didn't reach her eyes.
“I try, baby. I try.”
She reached into her purse and adjusted the pen recorder, making sure it was positioned where it could hear everything.
For the next hour, she listened as he described his symptoms in detail. The pain in his chest. The way his vision blurred. The terrible nightmares.
Every word was a lie. And she knew it.
But she nodded. She held his hand. She made comforting sounds.
When a nurse came in to check his vitals, Abigail stepped into the hallway.
Naomi was there, pretending to check a chart. Their eyes met for just a second.
Naomi gave the tiniest nod. Keep going. You're doing the right thing.
Abigail returned to the room.
Spencer was on his phone, but he quickly hung up when he saw her.
“Who was that?” she asked casually.
“Just a friend from the shop. Checking in.”
Liar.
She wanted to scream it at him. Instead, she just smiled.
“That's nice of them.”
She stayed another hour. Listening. Watching. Collecting every lie like evidence in a trial.
When she finally left, she felt like she'd been holding her breath the entire time.
In the parking lot, she pulled out the pen recorder and pressed play.
She listened to her own voice, soft and concerned.
She listened to his voice, weaving his web of deception.
And then she heard something that made her blood run cold.
It was toward the end of her visit. She had been in the bathroom for just a minute. The recorder had kept running.
And Spencer, thinking he was alone, had made a call.
“Victoria, she bought it. Hook, line, and sinker. She's already talking about figuring out the money for the new treatments.”
There was a pause. Then Victoria's voice, coming through the phone.
“Good. But we need to move faster. I found out something today. Something big.”
“What?”
“Remember that lottery ticket she was buying every week? The one she always joked about winning?”
Abigail's heart stopped.
“Well,” Victoria continued, “I was at the corner store this morning. The owner was talking about it. Someone from this neighborhood won the big one. Twenty million dollars. And he said it was an older woman. About her age.”
Silence.
Then Spencer's voice, low and dangerous.
“You think it's her?”
“It makes sense. She said she had good news. What other good news could she possibly have?”
Spencer laughed. But it wasn't the amused laugh from earlier. This one was cold. Calculating.
“If she won twenty million dollars and didn't tell me? That changes everything. We can't just ask for treatment money anymore. We need a plan. Something that makes her give me everything. Voluntarily. Before she realizes she doesn't have to.”
Abigail stood frozen in the parking lot, the recorder in her hand.
Victoria's voice came through again, sharp and hungry.
“I have an idea. But it's going to require you to get a lot sicker. Fast.”
The recording ended.
Abigail lowered the pen. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off. But she barely heard it.
Naomi had been right.
It was worse. So much worse.
And now they knew about the lottery.
Or at least, they suspected.
She had to move faster. She had to be smarter.
Because this wasn't just about money anymore.
May you like
It was about survival.
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