Chapter 5 - The Bait is Taken
On Friday morning, Margaret returned to Room 12 carrying a worn leather handbag. Inside was a certified cashier's check for sixty thousand dollars—drawn directly from the newly established, anonymous offshore accounts of the Garfield Preservation Trust.
Ethan was sitting up in bed, his laptop open. Beside him stood Dr. Marcus Sterling, holding a blue clipboard loaded with thick legal documents.
"Mom!" Ethan gasped, quickly closing his laptop lid. "You're here."
"I brought the money, Ethan," Margaret said, her voice breathy and frantic. She pulled the cashier's check from her purse and laid it on his bedside table.
Dr. Sterling’s eyes immediately locked onto the check. His mouth twitched with an almost imperceptible greedy sneer. He snatched the check, verifying the bank seal.
"This is extraordinary, Mrs. Collins," Sterling said, his voice dripping with false professional warmth. "This guarantees Ethan’s slot in the experimental trial. Now, we just need to finalize the administrative forms."
Sterling presented the clipboard, handing Margaret a black pen.
"These are standard power-of-attorney and clinical delegation documents," Sterling explained smoothly. "Due to the experimental nature of the treatment, the hospital requires a designated primary executor in case of emergency. Given your... age and stress levels, Ethan will act as the co-signatory for your home and assets to ensure no hospital liens interfere with your estate."
Margaret took the pen. Her hand trembled convincingly.
She looked at Ethan. "Ethan, sweetie... this says I’m transferring my signing authority over the Garfield house to your business entity."
"It's just a formality, Mom," Ethan said softly, taking her free hand and looking at her with wide, innocent eyes. "It protects the house from medical debt collection if anything happens to me during the trial. I would never take your house, Mom. You know that. I’m doing this to protect you."
I’m doing this to protect you.
The absolute hypocrisy of the words burned like acid.
"I trust you, Ethan," Margaret whispered, her eyes brimming with artificial tears. "You're my only boy. I know you'll take care of me."
She pressed the pen to the paper and signed her name with a flourish on three separate lines.
What Sterling and Ethan did not know was that forty minutes prior, Arthur Vance’s legal team had executed a emergency injunction with the Arizona Superior Court. The document Margaret was signing was an officially tracked legal exhibit—a dummy document embedded with micro-dot security tracking thread provided by Vanguard Investigations. The moment the ink dried, the document generated a digital record linking Sterling’s hospital email and Ethan’s IP address to an active federal fraud wiretap.
"Done," Margaret breathed, handing the clipboard back.
Sterling took the papers, his fingers practically trembling with excitement. "Excellent. I will file these immediately. Ethan, you need to rest now. The first infusion begins at three o'clock."
Sterling rushed out of the room, eager to deliver the property rights to Victor Vance.
Ethan lay back, looking at Margaret with a triumphant, condescending smile that he no longer bothered to fully hide.
"Mom, you should go home and rest," Ethan said, his tone lacking even the pretense of warmth now. "You look exhausted. In fact, Dr. Sterling recommended a lovely assisted care facility up in Prescott. Fresh air, twenty-four-hour nursing staff. I think it would be best if you packed a bag this weekend. I’ve already booked a room for you."
Margaret stood at the edge of the bed. The mask was beginning to slip on both sides.
"A care facility in Prescott, Ethan?" Margaret asked softly. "Is that where you sent Eleanor Vance?"
The air in the room instantly turned to ice.
Ethan froze. His smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp stillness. His eyes narrowed as he stared at his mother.
"What did you just say?" Ethan asked, his voice dropping into a flat, dangerous tone.
Margaret did not blink. She took a step closer to the bed, looking down at him not as a helpless mother, but as an executioner viewing a condemned man.
"Eleanor Vance," Margaret repeated calmly. "The seventy-two-year-old widow in San Diego. The one whose life insurance you collected four years ago."
Ethan’s face went completely pale. He reached for his phone on the nightstand, but Margaret calmly stepped forward, picked up the device, and slipped it into her pocket.
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"What is this?" Ethan demanded, his voice cracking with sudden panic as he tried to sit up. "Who have you been talking to? Are you losing your mind, Mom? Are you having a breakdown?"
"No, Ethan," Margaret said softly, her voice cool and steady as a marble monument. "For the first time in thirty-four years, my mind is completely clear."
