Chapter 8 - THE SECOND CAMERABy breakfast, Reed had the call traced.
My mother had not called from her phone.
She had called from a prepaid number purchased at a gas station twelve miles from her house.
“She’s escalating,” Reed said.
Officer Morris agreed.
The court added no-contact conditions before lunch.
Evelyn Whitaker was officially forbidden from contacting me directly or indirectly.
For normal people, that might have meant something.
For my mother, rules were just locked doors she expected someone else to open.
But the second camera changed everything.
It wasn’t in my hospital room.
It was in Connor’s apartment.
He didn’t know it existed.
Three weeks before my hospitalization, Connor had borrowed money from a man named Derek Vale, who ran what he called a “private investment network” and what Alicia called “a loan shark with a LinkedIn profile.” Connor had apparently promised Derek double repayment after his “family capital infusion.”
When the bank froze the transfers, Connor panicked.
Derek panicked harder.
And Derek had cameras in his office.
Reed’s investigator found the connection through the attempted transfer account. CW Apparel Holdings had been opened with Connor as manager and Derek listed as consultant.
By afternoon, Officer Morris had obtained a copy of a recording from Derek’s building security system. It showed Connor entering the office the morning before my assault.
No audio from the hallway.
But there was audio from inside.
Derek, terrified of being cheated, had recorded every meeting.
When Reed told me this, I didn’t understand at first.
“Connor talked about me?”
Reed’s expression was grim.
“He talked about your money.”
The police could not show me the full recording yet, but Officer Morris summarized enough.
Connor told Derek that his sister was “basically done anyway.”
Connor said our mother could “handle Maya emotionally.”
Connor said our father knew “how to make things look responsible.”
Connor said once the transfer was signed, nobody would question it because I was too sick to fight.
I felt my body go cold from the inside out.
Basically done anyway.
That was what my brother called me while I was fighting to survive.
Not dying.
Not suffering.
Not his sister.
Done.
Alicia cried before I did.
I just stared at the blanket.
“Will that be used?” I asked.
“Yes,” Officer Morris said. “It changes the investigation.”
“How?”
“Premeditation.”
The word should have scared me.
Instead, it steadied me.
Because premeditation meant I was not crazy.
It meant the plan had existed before the pain.
Before the blood.
Before my mother hissed that I would sign.
They had discussed me like an obstacle.
Now the law would discuss them like suspects.
That evening, the news broke.
This time, names appeared.
Chicago Woman Accuses Mother of Hospital Assault Amid Alleged $250K Fraud Scheme.
The article was careful. It said alleged. It said according to police sources. It said hospital footage existed but had not been publicly released.
But people did not need the footage to understand the headline.
Connor’s friends deleted their supportive comments.
My relatives stopped posting prayer emojis.
My mother’s church group chat leaked screenshots where she had called me “a possessed little liar.”
By nine that night, Aunt Denise came to the hospital.
Security stopped her at the desk.
She called Alicia instead.
“I just want to apologize.”
Alicia asked me.
I said no.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
The next morning, Dr. Patel entered with an expression I couldn’t read.
“Maya,” he said, “we found a potential living donor willing to be tested.”
My heart stopped.
“Who?”
He looked toward the door.
May you like
Alicia stepped in behind him, eyes red but determined.
“Me,” she said.
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