“Where were you?” she asked, hugging him tightly. “Your eyes—how are they?”
“I think… I’m a little better today.”
Madeline stiffened for half a second.
“That’s good,” she said quickly. “But don’t get your hopes up.”
“Which doctor said that?” Jonathan asked calmly.
She hesitated. “Dr. Collins.”
Jonathan didn’t remember any Dr. Collins.
Another lie.
Over the next days, Jonathan stopped consuming what Madeline gave him. His vision improved steadily.
Then Lily brought him something wrapped in plastic—an old voice recorder.
“My aunt gave it to me when my dad was sick,” she said. “In case doctors forgot what they said later.”
Jonathan stared at it.
“Sometimes,” Lily added, “you need proof.”
When Jonathan asked how her father died, she went quiet.
“Car accident,” she said finally. “But before that… he was ‘sick.’ My mom wanted the insurance. When she realized he wouldn’t die fast enough… she made him drive.”
Jonathan felt nauseous.
This wasn’t just about him.
It was a method.
The Trap
Jonathan announced he was leaving town for three days.
Madeline panicked.
“You can’t travel. Your treatment—”
“I’m flying. With my assistant.”
She begged. Argued. Cried. Tried to go with him.
Jonathan said no.