Chapter 5 - The Desperate Counterattack
Three weeks passed.
In Rochester, Natalie’s treatment was underway. Though the chemotherapy made her nauseous and fatigued, her body was responding remarkably well to the targeted nutrients and expert care. The color was slowly returning to her cheeks, and the hollow, gaunt look of starvation was fading.
Meanwhile, in Arizona, Lorraine and Brooke were sinking into absolute desperation.
Deprived of my salary, stripped of the Lexus, and locked out of the estate, they had blown through their remaining cash reserves within twenty-one days. They were forced to rent a cramped, sun-baked one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Phoenix, surrounded by boxes of designer clothes they couldn't wear and jewelry they couldn't afford to keep.
One Tuesday morning, while I was reviewing Natalie's lab results, my phone rang with a call from an unknown Phoenix number.
I answered, placing it on speaker.
"Liam Vance," I said coldly.
"Liam! Don't hang up!" Brooke’s screeching voice blasted through the speaker. "You have to help us! Mom is in the hospital!"
I didn't blink. "What happened?"
"She had a panic attack! Her blood pressure spiked, and the doctors say she could have a stroke!" Brooke sobbed, though her voice lacked any real grief—it was the sound of a spoiled child realizing her lifestyle was gone forever. "We don't have insurance, Liam! The hospital is asking for a five-thousand-dollar deposit, and my credit cards are all declined! You have to wire us money right now!"
"Where are you?" I asked calmly.
"Valley Memorial Hospital!" she cried. "Liam, please! She's your mother! You can't let her die because of some stupid argument over a house!"
"A stupid argument?" I repeated, my voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. "Brooke, four weeks ago, Natalie had a biopsy wound on her chest, a fever of one hundred and two, and was sleeping on a dirt-covered concrete floor in a storage room. When she asked Mom for fifty dollars to buy painkillers, Mom told her to drink tap water and stop being dramatic."
Silence fell over the line.
"Liam... that was different—"
"It wasn't different," I cut in. "Your mother spent thirty years working in banking. She knows how county safety-net hospitals work. Tell the billing department she is indigent. They will process her under state Medicaid. You don't need my money."
"You monster!" Brooke screamed, dropping her frantic act instantly, her true nature flaring up. "You’re letting your own mother rot in a public ward while you spend millions on that pathetic, hairless charity case!"
"Say another word about my wife, Brooke," I whispered, "and I file the police reports today."
"What police reports?!" she scoffed. "You can't do anything to us! Mom had a power of attorney! Everything she spent was legally authorized! Our lawyer said you don't have a case!"
"Your lawyer clearly hasn't seen the forged bank loan documents for the eighty-thousand-dollar credit line," I said smoothly. "Or the handwriting analysis showing Mom forged my signature on six separate mortgage draw requests. Or the recorded footage from the estate's security cameras showing you slapping Natalie across the face when she dropped a serving tray."
The line went dead silent.
"You... you have security footage?" Brooke stammered, her confidence instantly vaporizing.
"I have sixteen gigabytes of footage, Brooke," I lied—though I knew the threat of it would shatter their remaining sanity. "Every scream, every insult, every act of physical intimidation you committed against a woman suffering from cancer is backed up on three secure cloud servers."
"Liam... please..." Brooke began to plead, her voice trembling violently. "I was just doing what Mom told me! Mom made me do it! She said Natalie was trying to turn you against us! I didn't mean to hurt her!"
"Save it for the judge," I said.
"Wait! Liam! We'll give back the clothes! We'll give back the jewelry! Just don't send Mom to prison! She won't survive prison!"
"She should have thought about that before she forced my wife to sleep in a basement," I said.
I ended the call, set the phone on the table, and walked over to Natalie’s bedside.
She was awake, watching me with quiet blue eyes. She had heard most of the conversation.
"Liam," she whispered, her voice soft, reaching out to touch my hand. "Are they... are they really going to prison?"
"If the justice system works the way it's supposed to, yes," I said, sitting beside her and gently brushing a stray lock of her soft, regrowing hair away from her forehead. "Are you okay with that?"
Natalie looked out the window at the blue Minnesota sky, taking a long, deep breath.
May you like
"For months, I thought I was losing my mind, Liam," she said softly. "They made me feel like I didn't deserve to exist. Like I was just a burden who was taking up space in your life. I don't want revenge out of hatred... but I want them to know that what they did was evil. I want to feel safe again."
"You are safe, my love," I promised, kissing her forehead. "And they will never, ever touch your life again."
