So Mark wasn’t dying. At least, not at County General Hospital.
Relief washed over me at first, as if air were filling my lungs again. Then came rage, burning and trembling, at the fact that someone had used my brother’s suffering as leverage against my bank account.
Green’s expression hadn’t changed much. “Now let’s talk about money. This banking information isn’t random. Either the person knows you, or they know enough about your family to seem credible.”
My mind flashed back to the call: my mother’s sobbing voice, my father’s curt order, the way my stomach had obeyed panic before logic even arrived.
Green leaned forward. “We can conduct a controlled response if you wish. You reply to the text message as if you were cooperating. Calmly, slowly, asking for clarification.”
I felt nauseous. “Do you want me to play along?”
“Only under our supervision,” she said. “You don’t send any money. You don’t click on any links. You just ask questions and let them reveal themselves.”
A strange stability settled in. Revenge didn’t need to be noisy. It could be discreet.
I nodded once. “Okay.”
Green dictated and I typed, my thumbs surprisingly steady now.
I can make the connection. Which hospital? Which room? Who is the doctor?
Then we waited.
Five minutes. Ten.
The silence was such that the caller had evaporated into the daylight, as if the monster that existed at one in the morning had not survived its responsibilities.
Then my phone vibrated.
Stop asking questions. Just send him messages. He’s suffering.
No hospital name. No doctor. No room.
Green’s gaze sharpened. “Good. That proves to me that it’s not because of your brother. It’s about controlling you.”
My mouth was dry again, but this time it wasn’t from fear. It was from anger that had learned to stand tall.
Green slid my phone across the table as if it were a booby trap. “Answer as if you’re cooperating, but ask them for something they can’t refuse to give you. A full name. A branch. Anything that will leave a trace.”
I swallowed. “And if they don’t answer?”
“They will,” she said. “Because the people who are pressuring you hate obstacles. They will try to force their way through them.”
I typed:
I’m at the bank. They need the account holder’s full name to process the transfer. What is it?
We waited.
Thirty seconds.
One minute.
The response then came like a slap in the face.
Emily Wilson. Now send it.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
Emily. My sister’s name. My mother’s baby. The one who never had to spend sleepless nights wondering how to pay her rent, because someone else always took care of everything.
Green didn’t seem shocked. She appeared satisfied, as if the last piece of the puzzle had finally fallen into place.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Now we have something.”
Ramirez leaned forward and read the screen. “That’s your sister’s full name.”
My nod was heavy, like an agreement to something I could never forget.
Green raised his pen. “We’ll make a note of this. Then we’ll check if this account actually belongs to him or if someone is using his name. In any case, we’ll make sure of your brother’s well-being. If he really is having problems, we’ll confirm it. If not, we’ll confirm that too.”
The journey to my parents’ house took twelve minutes. I had made this journey thousands of times: for Sunday dinners, for parties, for urgent errands that weren’t urgent until they became so.
Same neighborhood. Same trimmed hedges. Same flag on the porch.
Two patrol cars arrived behind us.
Ramirez asked me to stay in the car.
My hands tightened on my knees as I watched the police officers walk up the alley and start knocking.
My mother opened the door quickly, as if she were waiting.
And then there was Marc.
Alive. Not pale. Not bandaged. Not suffering.
He stood behind her, in a T-shirt, a mug in his hand, as if it were an ordinary morning. As if my morning panic had been nothing but a dream.
Even from the car, I saw my mother’s face change at the sight of the uniforms. She tried to force a smile, but in vain.
The police spoke briefly. My mother’s hands waved. Mark frowned. Then Emily appeared in the hallway, glancing around furtively like a child caught stealing cookies.
I felt nauseous.
Ramirez returned to the car, his face impassive. “Your brother is not in the hospital.”
I stared straight ahead. My voice was weak. “I know.”
Green returned a moment later, his face expressionless.
“Madam,” she said, “we need you to come inside. We are going to ask them questions in your presence.”
Part of me wanted to run away.
Another part of me finally wanted to look them in the eyes and stop pretending it was normal.
I got out of the car.
And as I climbed the front steps, my mother’s voice floated through the open door, high-pitched and trembling, already shaping the story she would tell so that it wouldn’t be her fault.
