At the very end of the hall, a heavy wooden dresser had been pushed directly in front of a closed door.
“Elena, wait!”
Mark shouted, scrambling up the stairs behind me.
I shoved the heavy dresser aside with all my strength, threw open the door, and found Mom.
Without taking my eyes off her, I pulled out my phone, started a video recording, and dialed 911.
“Mom, I’m here,” I sobbed, kneeling beside the bed.
Mom weakly pointed a shaky finger toward the mattress.
I lifted the corner.
Tucked inside a sealed plastic bag was a folder containing bank receipts of all my wire transfers from Doha, photocopies of my driver’s license, forged medical releases, and a power-of-attorney authorization bearing a signature that looked almost identical to my own.
Except I knew I had never signed it.
Beneath those papers lay an official insurance policy folder.
My eyes scanned the top line:
Insured: Elena Morales
Primary Beneficiary: Mark Vance
Effective Date: In exactly two days.
I slowly stood up and turned around.
Mark was standing in the doorway, his hands trembling.
“Elena, listen to me, I can explain—”
From the bed, Mom shook her head weakly.
“Elena… don’t drink anything they give you.”
