When the oncologist said “six weeks,” I memorized the way Eric’s eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks when he slept. I didn’t know he’d rehearsed that fragile expression.
The night-shift nurse who urged me to film his room saw what I couldn’t – the inconsistencies. The way his “morphine drip” was never connected. How he never lost his appetite. The mysterious late-night visitor who wasn’t family.
The footage showed my husband’s miraculous recovery each evening – standing easily, making plans, kissing a woman who wasn’t his grieving wife. Their recorded voices laid out the plot: a fake death certificate, an offshore account, a new life funded by my insurance payout.
At his “deathbed gathering,” I revealed the truth on the hospital room TV. His mother’s wails echoed down the hallway as officers arrested him mid-performance. The doctor who falsified the diagnosis lost his license that same day.
The real terminal illness? Greed. And I was the cure.
