THE WIFE WHO SOLD OUR SOUL

The drive to Mercy General Hospital took twenty minutes, but it felt like hours.

The antique silver watch burned a hole in my pocket. Five years ago, I had grieved the loss of that watch. It was the only thing I had left of my father. Victoria had held me while I filed the police report. She had wiped my tears.

She had been carrying it in her purse tonight.

I left the gala without saying another word to her. I told Daniel to get in my car. He sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, his knuckles white as he gripped his knees.

“I’m sorry,” Daniel mumbled as we pulled into the hospital parking lot. “I ruined your night.”

“You didn’t ruin anything, Daniel. You just turned the lights on.”

We walked through the sliding glass doors of the oncology wing. The smell of bleach and stale coffee hit me instantly. It was a smell I knew well from the foundation's charity visits, but tonight, it felt suffocating.

Daniel led me to Room 412.

The woman in the bed looked smaller than she should have. Her skin was pale, her hair thinning from the treatments she had managed to scrape together before the money ran out. Machines hummed steadily beside her.

Sarah Reed.

She opened her eyes as we walked in. When she saw Daniel, a weak smile touched her lips. But when her gaze shifted to me, the smile vanished.

Panic flared in her eyes.

“Mom, it’s okay,” Daniel said quickly, rushing to her side. “This is Mr. Whitmore. He’s here to help. He didn’t know about the money.”

Sarah pushed herself up against the pillows, her breath catching.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered. Her voice was raspy, full of fear.

“Mrs. Reed, I am so deeply sorry,” I started, stepping closer to the bed. “My foundation failed you. But I am going to make it right. First thing Monday, I will personally wire the funds to the hospital.”

Sarah shook her head wildly. “No. No, you can’t.”

I frowned. “Of course I can. The money was approved. It belongs to your care.”

“If you send the money now, she’ll know,” Sarah choked out. Tears spilled down her hollow cheeks. “She’ll know I told the truth. And she’ll finish what she started.”

“My wife?” I asked, my blood turning to ice. “Victoria threatened you?”

Daniel looked at his mother in confusion. “Mom, what are you talking about? You’ve never met Mrs. Whitmore.”

Sarah closed her eyes. A sob tore through her throat.

“Daniel,” she whispered. “Go get me some ice chips from the nurse’s station. Please.”

Daniel looked like he wanted to argue, but the desperation in his mother’s voice stopped him. He shot me a wary look and stepped out into the hallway.

The moment the door clicked shut, Sarah looked at me. The fear in her eyes had been replaced by a heavy, crushing guilt.

“I didn’t apply to your foundation by accident, Charles,” she said.

I froze. She knew my first name. Not Mr. Whitmore. Charles.

“I know who you are,” I said slowly. “You’re an applicant. A victim of my wife’s embezzlement.”

“I’m not just an applicant,” Sarah said. She reached a trembling hand toward the small bedside drawer. She pulled out a faded, folded photograph and held it out to me.

I took it.

It was a picture of two young women standing in front of a brick apartment building. They were laughing, holding red plastic cups.

One of the women was Sarah, looking vibrant and healthy.

The other woman was Victoria.

“You knew her,” I breathed, staring at the photo. “Before she met me.”

“We were roommates in college,” Sarah whispered. “Before she reinvented herself. Before she became Victoria Whitmore.”

My mind raced. Victoria had always claimed she grew up as an only child in a quiet suburb, moving to the city only after her parents passed away. She had no college friends, no old roommates. She said she had left her painful past behind.

“Why didn’t she ever mention you?” I asked.

“Because I know what she did,” Sarah said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Fifteen years ago. At the old St. Jude’s clinic on 4th Street. Before you met her.”

The old St. Jude’s clinic. It had burned down in a massive electrical fire. I remembered reading about it. The fire had claimed the lives of two people and destroyed thousands of medical records.

“She didn’t steal that thirty thousand dollars just to buy designer shoes, Charles,” Sarah said, grabbing my wrist with shocking strength. “She intercepted my application. She held the money back on purpose.”

“Why?” I asked, feeling the floor drop out from under me.

Sarah looked toward the door, ensuring Daniel wasn’t there.

“She didn’t steal it to hurt me,” Sarah confessed, tears falling freely now. “She kept it to starve me out. So I would die before I could tell you the truth about Daniel.”

I stared at her. “What about Daniel?”

Sarah’s grip on my wrist tightened until her nails dug into my skin.

“He’s not my son, Charles.”

Before she could say another word, the door to the hospital room slammed open.