He stood and walked to the window overlooking the historic district. Church steeples rose against the May sky. After a long silence, he turned back.
“I’ll help you,” he said, “but only with three conditions.”
I leaned forward.
“One: no actual harm to your health. You see a real doctor. We document everything.”
“Agreed.”
“Two: if Anna crosses into unsafe territory financially, physically, emotionally, we end this immediately. No exceptions.”
“Agreed.”
“Three: I retain the right to intervene at any point. If I think you’re going too far, I pull the plug.”
I met his eyes. “You sound like John.”
“That’s because he made me promise to protect you from yourself.” His voice softened. “Even if that meant protecting you from your own plans.”
We shook hands.
Over the next eight days, Charles and I built my new identity — not Elizabeth Hayes, real estate mogul, but Elizabeth Haye’s desperate woman with nothing left to lose.
Day one: Charles arranged an appointment with Dr. Richard Morrison, an oncologist and old friend. I went in for a real examination, real CT scan, real tests. The diagnosis came back benign ovarian cyst — harmless, treatable.
The bills, however, were real.
$2,145 for imaging. $3,890 for labs. $2330 for consultations. Total: $8,365.
Charles altered the diagnostic report, changed benign cyst to stage 3 ovarian malignancy.
I stared at the falsified document.
“This feels wrong.”
“It should,” Charles said quietly. “But if you’re going to do this, do it right. Half-truths won’t test anything.”
Days two through four: I went to Goodwill on King Street and bought a wardrobe of worn clothes. Faded jeans with frayed hems, oversized sweaters with pulled threads, shoes with cracked soles. The cashier rang up my purchases: $47 total. I paid cash and wondered if Anna had ever shopped here.
Day five: I cut my hair short at a budget salon. Not the elegant bob I’d worn for years, but a choppy, uneven style that looked like I’d done it myself.
“Rough week?” the stylist asked sympathetically.
“You could say that.”
Days six and seven: makeup lessons in reverse. I learned to make my skin look sallow, to hollow my cheeks with shadow, to create the appearance of someone losing a battle.
Day eight: Charles presented me with foreclosure documents — fake, but disturbingly authentic — notices stating that 12 of my properties were being seized to cover medical expenses.
“Where did you get these?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
He wasn’t wrong.
On the morning of May 20th, I stood before my bedroom mirror.
The woman staring back wasn’t me.
Thin hair. Pale skin. Clothes that hung loose on a frame that hadn’t actually lost weight, but looked like it had. Eyes that carried a fear I didn’t have to fake because I was terrified of what I was about to do.
I picked up my phone and took a photo, sent it to Charles with two words: I’m ready.
His response came immediately.
God help us both.
