The neon lights made my tired face look pale when I walked out of the Hilton in downtown Chicago. Cars honked and people laughed in nearby taverns, but inside me, everything was calm.
My boss, Mr. Grant, had just left. I had on a wrinkled work blouse and my chest felt hollow and heavy.
My purse made my phone ring.
I took it out. “Deposited: $6,000” appeared on the screen. The amount of money made my heart race.
But I still didn’t feel better.
My name is Emily Carter, and I’m 28 years old. A regular office worker who lives in a little apartment on the outskirts of Chicago. Things have been quite weird in my life for a while now.
Jake, my husband, was paralyzed from the neck down in a car accident two years ago. Since then, I’ve been his nurse, caregiver, and provider. Changing, bathing, and feeding him. Every day. Like a woman with a shell around her, running on empty.
But tonight… I did something I never thought I would do.
That morning, Mr. Grant called me into his office.
Mr. Grant, a powerful and well-groomed guy in his late fifties, regularly peered at me with eyes that made me feel uneasy.
“Emily,” he said, “do you want to save your husband?”
I nodded. My heart was already racing.
He pushed a piece of paper across his desk. At the top, there was a large print of $6,000. What do you receive back? The best part was spending the night with him. We shared a hotel room.
I paused.
Jake needed surgery right away. The doctors said he would die in six months without it. We didn’t have any cash. Our relatives had done all they could.
I wrote my name on it. My fingers shook so terribly that my name didn’t even look like mine.
In the hotel, I felt numb. I didn’t let myself think. I was there.
Mr. Grant wasn’t bad. He was almost… kind, really. But every second seemed like a knife ripping into my heart.
When it was ended, he gave me an envelope and said, “You did well.” You kept him alive.
I didn’t utter a word. They merely nodded and went away.
The kitchen smelt like rice porridge when I went back to our modest apartment in Cicero.
Jake was still in bed, looking up at the ceiling with no emotion on his face. I sat next to him, took some oatmeal with a spoon, and slowly brought it to his lips.
“I put in extra hours today.” I’m tired.
A lie.
He nodded slowly and didn’t say anything.
I looked at him, the man I once loved with all my heart. It’s simply skin, bones, and silence now.
Tears poured quietly into the basin.
My phone buzzed again.
The total was $12,000. Another deposit.
I became stiff.
Mr. Grant?
The note added, “You deserve more.” Don’t let anyone know.
My chest felt tight.
Was it money to stay quiet? A trap? Did you feel uneasy?
I didn’t know.
The next day, I went to work with my nerves on edge.
But Mr. Grant wasn’t there. His assistant indicated he had flown to New York that morning.
I took a shaky breath. A break? Maybe. But something didn’t seem right.
Then another message came.
A number that is not known:
“Thanks for last night, Emily.” I’m Jake, but not your Jake.
My skin got cold.
I called the number.
Not linked.
I rushed home.
Jake was still there, staring quietly.
“Do you know anything?” I asked in a soft voice.
He looked at me. He grinned softly after that.
“Emily, I know how hard you’ve worked.” But are you sure that man in the hotel room was really your boss?
I felt chilly blood.
I pulled out the contract again. Mr. Grant didn’t sign it.
It said Jake Harrison.
It had my husband’s whole name on it.
I checked the record of the deposit.
Jake Harrison also sent this.
I couldn’t sleep that night.
I sat next to Jake and attempted to figure things out.
Who had I really been with?
There was a third message at 3:00 a.m.
“Don’t look for me.” Just use the money. Give him a hand. He has had enough.
I read it again.
And again.
Who was “he”?
Was the man next to me really a victim who couldn’t do anything?
Or something completely different?
I saw the $18,000 in my bank account.
And I knew—
This wasn’t the end.
Because maybe…
The guy I had been taking care of for two years wasn’t who I thought he was.