Her voice trembled, but her eyes betrayed her.
They were watching. Measuring. Calculating.
I dialed the pre-arranged number, shouting into the phone, “My son’s unconscious. He’s not breathing.”
Within minutes, the paramedics arrived—two undercover officers in scrubs. They loaded Ethan onto a stretcher, hooked to monitors that mimicked a flatline.
Vanessa tried to push past me. “I’m his aunt. I should come with him.”
I grabbed her arm. “No. I’m going. Stay here.”
Her hand trembled, but she didn’t argue.
That told me everything.
At the hospital, Ethan lay still on the bed, wires taped to his chest. Makeup paled his skin, and a monitor beeped steadily with a blank rhythm.
I sat beside him, clutching his hand. He opened one eye just long enough to whisper, “Am I doing okay?”
I kissed his forehead. “You’re perfect. Don’t move.”
Collins stood in the corner, arms folded. “When she gets here, keep it together. Let her think she’s won. She’ll show her true face.”
Forty minutes later, hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. Vanessa stormed into the room, hair tousled, eyes glassy with crocodile tears.
“Julia—what happened? Is he…?”
I covered my face with trembling hands. “He didn’t make it.”
Her body went slack for a split second, like relief had just washed through her veins.
Then she threw herself onto the bed, crying into Ethan’s still arm.
“No, not Ethan!” she wailed, but the tone was hollow.
Leaning close to his ear, she whispered words I wasn’t meant to hear, but the microphone caught perfectly.
“Finally, it’s done.”
My blood went cold.
She straightened quickly, realizing what slipped. “Julia, I can’t believe this. How could this happen?”
I stared at her, my tears genuine, even though the death was fake. My son was alive, but hearing her celebrate his supposed end cut deeper than any wound I’d carried in combat.
Collins gave me the smallest nod from the corner. Stay calm. Keep her talking.
I whispered, “Why him, Vanessa? Why my boy?”
