I felt nauseous because the honest answer was: he shouldn’t.
But my family has always collected bits and pieces of me as if they were owed to them. My mother insisted years ago on having my social security number “just for insurance paperwork.” My father asked for my bank details “just temporarily” because he couldn’t pay the bills. Mark borrowed my laptop. Emily used my old iPad. A million little moments that seemed harmless until they weren’t.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, and it tasted of both betrayal and truth.
Ramirez partially closed his notebook. “We’ve received other reports this week using the same scenario. Panic in the middle of the night. Send money or a loved one will be in danger. This targets people who react out of fear.”
I felt a wave of emotion rising within me. Relief, rage, humiliation – as if someone had plunged their hand into my chest and dislodged everything.
Hensley’s voice dropped a tone. “This person used your brother’s name. That suggests that whoever did this knows your family.”
The coin tilted.
Ramirez stood up. “We would like you to come to the station to make a statement, ma’am. And we would like to verify the information contained in this text message.”
I swallowed hard. “What if it’s… someone close to you?”
Ramirez’s words were gentle, but not conciliatory. “The truth will come out eventually.”
He stopped on the threshold. “One last thing. Don’t call your parents yet.”
My phone felt heavy in my hand, like a brick.
Because if I didn’t call them, I would be scared.
And if I called them, I could finally discover what was behind that morning cry.
Part 2
The police station smelled of photocopier paper and stale coffee, like an endless job. Officer Ramirez led me down a corridor painted a soothing beige that, paradoxically, did nothing to calm me. The fluorescent lighting made everyone look a little unwell.
He sat me down in a small interview room with a metal table and a box of tissues that looked like it had been there since 1998. A plastic chair creaked loudly when I moved.
“I’ll get you some water,” said Ramirez.
I mainly picked it up to stop my hands from shaking. The cup was thin and crumpled, the kind that collapses if you squeeze it too hard.
Before beginning, Ramirez stated, “I want you to hear this from an official: you did the right thing by not making a transfer in the middle of the night.”
I exhaled absently. “I didn’t feel comfortable when you were on my doorstep.”
“It’s rare,” he said, without malice. “People feel accused when in reality, they are being protected.”
He slipped me a form. The time, the number, the exact words. The outlines of my night transformed into lines on the paper.
When we received the text message, Ramirez asked, “Do you recognize the name associated with this account?”
He showed me a printed screenshot. The account name was simple, like that of someone who wanted to appear legitimate.
I stared at her. Something in those initials stuck in my memory, like a song whose title I couldn’t remember.
“No,” I lied at first.
Not because I was sure of it, but because, in my family, my first reflex has always been loyalty, even when it makes me suffer.
Ramirez didn’t try to provoke anyone. He didn’t exert any pressure. He simply agreed and said, “Okay. We’ll check one thing at a time.”
A few minutes later, he returned accompanied by a woman dressed in a simple blazer and comfortable shoes, her hair pulled back, her gaze alert. She seemed to have learned not to waste her words.
“Inspector Green,” she introduced herself, shaking my hand once. A firm handshake. Professional.
She pulled up a chair. “This is what we’re going to do. We’re not calling anyone for now. Not your parents, not your brother, not your sister.”
My stomach felt a knot in my stomach. “My sister?”
Green didn’t react to my tone. She simply continued: “First, we’re checking the hospital’s claim.”
She gave me back my phone. “Do you know where your brother usually gets medical treatment?”
“County General,” I said. “Or St. Mary’s, if my mother’s making a big deal out of it.”
Green nodded. “Call the county general services, but not through your contacts. Find the main line and call that.”
This detail was important. It made me understand that this wasn’t simply a family tragedy. It was a legal process, the result of others’ mistakes.
I searched and dialed the number, my fingertip hovering as if it were about to bite.
A receptionist answered, smiling and professional.
“Hello,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, “I’m trying to locate a patient. Mark Wilson.”
There was a silence while she searched.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said softly. “We don’t have anyone by that name in our emergency department.”
My throat tightened. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Her kindness seemed tinged with weariness, as if she had already said those words today. “If you believe someone is impersonating the hospital, please contact law enforcement.”
I hung up and looked up.
