Chapter 3 - The Boardroom Trap
By 7:00 PM, the rain outside St. Jude Community Hospital had turned into a thick, misty fog that clung to the streetlights along 5th Street.
Inside Room 12 of the east wing, Spencer Riley was no longer lying in bed.
He was wearing an expensive dark blue cashmere sweater, pacing across the polished floor, holding a crystal glass of scotch. Sitting in the armchair near the window was Dr. Julian Croft—a polished, fifty-five-year-old man in a bespoke suit, reviewing a six-page legal document on a leather clip folder.
Sitting on the edge of the bed was Amber Croft—Julian's daughter and Spencer's girlfriend—wearing a designer dress, holding a golden fountain pen.
"She’s twenty minutes away," Spencer said, his eyes flashing with manic energy as he took a sip of scotch. "Twenty million dollars! Do you have any idea what that does for us, Julian? We clear the Hammond casino debt by midnight, buy out the commercial printing lease, and transfer the remaining eighteen million into the Cayman entity before the quarter ends!"
Dr. Croft adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, looking up with a cold, professional smirk. "Make sure she signs the power-of-attorney section before she hands over the physical ticket, Spencer. Under Illinois law, if she signs the irrevocable medical trust agreement first, the trust takes sole legal possession of the lottery claim."
"She’ll sign whatever I put in front of her," Spencer scoffed, pouring himself another drink. "She’s sixty years old, works forty hours a week at a dry cleaner, and thinks I have six months to live. She’d sign her own death warrant if she thought it would buy me another week of life."
Amber laughed, twirling the gold pen between her manicured fingers. "I almost feel sorry for her. She actually pawned her mother's old sewing machine last week to pay for your fake blood work."
"She likes feeling like a hero," Spencer said, waving his hand dismissively. "It gives her life meaning. I’m doing her a favor, really."
A light knock sounded on the heavy wooden door of Room 12.
Spencer instantly set his scotch glass behind the curtain, leaped into the hospital bed, pulled the white sheet up to his chest, and forced his face into a grimace of agonizing pain.
Amber quickly smoothed her dress, stepping into the shadow near the bathroom door, while Dr. Croft assumed a solemn, professional posture beside the bed, holding his medical clipboard.
"Come in," Spencer called out, his voice instantly dropping into a weak, raspy whisper.
The door opened smoothly.
Abigail walked in.
She wore her faded winter coat, carrying her worn leather purse under her arm. Her dark hair was damp from the rain, her face pale, her eyes fixed entirely on her son.
"Spencer," Abigail whispered, walking slowly toward the bed.
"Mom," Spencer groaned, reaching out a trembling hand. "Thank God you’re here. Did you bring it? Is the ticket safe?"
Abigail stopped two feet from the bed. She did not reach out to take his hand.
She looked at Spencer—at his full, healthy cheeks, his trimmed hair, the faint scent of expensive scotch lingering on his breath, and the brand-new gold watch glittering on his wrist beneath the hospital gown.
For thirty-four years, she had loved this boy. She had held him through fevers, stayed up late helping him with school projects, worked extra shifts so he could have brand-name shoes, and sacrificed every piece of her own comfort to secure his happiness.
And he sat before her, wearing a hospital gown like a theater costume, waiting to rob her of her final dignity.
"Mrs. Riley," Dr. Croft stepped forward, offering a warm, professional smile. "Spencer told me the extraordinary news. Congratulations. As his attending physician, I must advise you that time is critical. We have the Boston airlift team on standby, but we need to execute the irrevocable medical trust transfer immediately to release the funds."
Dr. Croft pushed the leather clipboard and the gold pen toward Abigail.
"Sign right here on line four, Mrs. Riley," Dr. Croft said softly. "And then hand the physical ticket to my legal secretary, Amber."
Abigail looked down at the clipboard.
Then she looked up at Amber Croft, who offered a sweet, practiced smile.
"Where is the ticket, Mom?" Spencer asked, his weak persona slipping further as his eyes darted frantically toward her handbag. "Pull it out! Let Dr. Croft verify the serial numbers!"
Abigail slowly reached into her handbag.
Spencer, Dr. Croft, and Amber all leaned forward, their breath catching in their throats, their eyes wide with unholy, desperate greed.
Abigail pulled her hand out of her purse.
She was not holding a lottery ticket.
She was holding a small, black digital recorder.
Abigail pressed the play button.
May you like
Spencer’s light, amused voice filled Room 12 with crystal-clear audio:
“If my mom believes I’m dying, she’ll give me every dollar she has left... She likes feeling needed. I don’t even have to ask her directly. I just tell her I’m scared, and she always finds some way to pay.”