PART 2
Abigail Riley stared at the name glowing across her phone screen.
**Dr. Malcolm Reeves. Spencer’s attending physician.**
Across the street, the two men beside the black SUV had stopped pretending not to watch the café. One of them lifted a phone to his ear. The other rested his hand inside his coat.
Naomi grabbed Abigail’s wrist.
“Do not answer.”
The phone continued vibrating between them.
Abigail’s heart hammered so violently that she could feel it in her throat. “Why would Spencer’s doctor be calling me?”
“Because someone told him you were here.”
“That’s impossible.”
Naomi glanced toward the café’s rear hallway. “Nothing about this is impossible anymore.”
The front door opened.
A bell chimed overhead.
One of the men from the SUV stepped inside.
He was tall, clean-shaven, and dressed in a dark suit that looked too expensive for a casual afternoon. His eyes moved across the room with slow precision.
Naomi pulled Abigail to her feet.
“Back door. Now.”
They hurried past the counter, ignoring the startled barista, and entered a narrow corridor beside the kitchen. Abigail nearly stumbled as Naomi shoved open an emergency exit.
Cold air struck her face.
They emerged into an alley crowded with trash bins and delivery boxes. Naomi ran toward a small gray sedan parked near the far end.
“Get in.”
Abigail hesitated.
She barely knew this woman. She did not understand the documents in the folder. She did not know whether Naomi was protecting her or leading her into another trap.
Then the café’s rear door slammed open behind them.
The man in the dark suit stepped into the alley.
“Mrs. Riley,” he called. “Dr. Reeves only wants to speak with you.”
Naomi unlocked the car.
“That is not a request.”
Abigail climbed inside.
Naomi threw herself behind the wheel and accelerated before Abigail had fully closed the door. The sedan shot onto the street, narrowly missing a delivery truck.
In the side mirror, Abigail saw the black SUV pull away from the curb.
“They’re following us.”
“I know.”
“Who are they?”
“Security.”
“For the hospital?”
Naomi shook her head.
“For the people using the hospital.”
The sedan turned sharply through a residential neighborhood. Naomi drove with both hands gripping the wheel, checking the mirrors every few seconds.
Abigail clutched the folder against her chest.
“What exactly did Spencer do?”
Naomi’s jaw tightened.
“I told you, I don’t know how much he understands.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only honest answer I have.”
The black SUV appeared again at the end of the street.
Naomi cursed under her breath.
She turned into a crowded outdoor market, slowing behind a line of buses and delivery vans. Vendors stood beneath colorful awnings while customers crossed the road carrying bags of fruit and bread.
“Take off your coat,” Naomi said.
“What?”
“Do it.”
Abigail obeyed.
Naomi pulled into an alley behind a bakery and stopped beside a delivery entrance.
“Leave the folder in the car.”
“I’m not letting it out of my hands.”
“If they see you carrying it, they will know I showed you evidence.”
Abigail hesitated, then tucked several pages beneath her blouse and left the rest under the seat.
They stepped out and entered the bakery through the rear door.
A startled employee shouted at them, but Naomi hurried through the kitchen, grabbed a white apron from a hook, and threw it over Abigail’s shoulders.
“Keep your head down.”
They emerged into the front of the bakery just as the black SUV stopped outside the alley.
Naomi handed Abigail a paper bag filled with bread rolls.
“Walk slowly. Do not look back.”
They joined a group of customers leaving through the front entrance. Abigail kept her chin lowered, pretending to inspect the bread inside the bag.
One of the men from the SUV entered the bakery behind them.
Abigail heard his voice.
“Did two women come through here?”
The cashier began answering.
Naomi guided Abigail across the market and into a taxi waiting beside a produce stand.
Only after the cab drove three blocks away did either woman breathe normally.
Abigail looked at Naomi.
“You seem very experienced at running from people.”
Naomi stared out the window.
“I learned quickly.”
“Why?”
A long silence followed.
Then Naomi said, “Because my sister trusted Dr. Reeves.”
Abigail waited.
Naomi’s voice softened.
“My sister, Elena, was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease three years ago. She was frightened, but the doctors said the condition could be managed. Then Reeves transferred her into an experimental treatment program.”
“What kind of treatment?”
“He never explained clearly. There were always new tests, new medications, new complications. Elena became weaker every month.”
Abigail’s fingers tightened around the bread bag.
“Did she recover?”
Naomi looked at her.
“She died.”
The word settled heavily between them.
“I’m sorry,” Abigail whispered.
“Afterward, I found bills in her apartment. The hospital had charged our family, two charities, and an insurance company for the same procedures. Some of the treatments listed on the invoices were never performed. Others were performed on dates when Elena was not even in the hospital.”
Abigail thought of the papers beneath her blouse.
“You believe they are doing the same thing with Spencer.”
“I know they are billing multiple sources. What I do not know is whether Spencer is pretending to be sick, truly sick, or being kept sick.”
Abigail turned sharply toward her.
“Being kept sick?”
Naomi nodded.
“The program makes money when patients remain dependent. A cured patient stops generating invoices.”
The taxi continued through afternoon traffic.
Abigail felt suddenly nauseated.
She remembered every call from Spencer over the past year. Every whispered complaint. Every new crisis. Every specialist who had insisted that he needed another test.
She had never questioned them.
Doctors had spoken in complicated language, and Spencer had always looked pale and exhausted.
She had trusted them because she was afraid not to.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To someone who can help you understand the records.”
“Another doctor?”
“An accountant.”
The taxi stopped outside a narrow office building with cracked windows and a faded sign.
Naomi led Abigail upstairs to the third floor. At the end of a dim hallway, she knocked twice, paused, then knocked once more.
The door opened.
A silver-haired man in shirtsleeves looked out.
“You were followed?”
“We lost them.”
“You hope you lost them.”
His eyes moved to Abigail.
“This is Spencer Riley’s mother?”
“Yes.”
He stepped aside.
The office was crowded with boxes, filing cabinets, and two computers covered in spreadsheets. On the wall hung certificates bearing the name **Thomas Keane, Forensic Accountant**.
Thomas locked the door behind them.
Naomi placed the folder on his desk.
“I showed her the duplicate claims.”
Thomas frowned. “You brought her here without knowing whether she could be trusted?”
Abigail felt anger rise inside her.
“I am the one who has been lied to.”
“That does not mean you are not being watched.”
“She received a message from us,” Naomi said. “That probably triggered them.”
Thomas looked at Abigail.
“Did you tell anyone about the lottery?”
“No.”
“Did you search the winning numbers on your phone?”
“Yes.”
“More than once?”
“Several times.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Then someone may already know.”
Abigail stared at him.
“How?”
“Your son’s phone plan is registered under your family account. Is your email connected to it?”
“Yes.”
“Shared passwords?”
She nodded reluctantly.
Thomas turned toward Naomi.
“They monitor her.”
Abigail felt the room tilt.
“That cannot be true.”
“People who run financial fraud schemes do not survive by ignoring money,” Thomas said. “Twenty million dollars is enough to make cautious criminals reckless.”
Abigail pulled the hidden pages from beneath her blouse and placed them on the desk.
“These charges use my name.”
Thomas examined them.
“Your signature appears on several consent forms.”
“I never signed those.”
“You may have signed blank intake documents.”
She remembered a nurse handing her a stack of papers months earlier.
Spencer had been crying in pain. Abigail had signed wherever the nurse pointed.
Thomas continued turning pages.
“They used your authorization to bill personal loans, medical credit accounts, and charitable assistance programs.”
“How much?”
He typed several figures into his computer.
“Based only on these records, more than four hundred thousand dollars.”
Abigail sank into a chair.
“I never had that kind of money.”
“You did not need to. The debt was spread across foundations, insurers, lenders, and private donors.”
Naomi leaned over the desk.
“Show her the names.”
Thomas hesitated.
“She needs to know,” Naomi insisted.
He opened another file on the computer.
A list appeared.
Abigail recognized several organizations that had contacted her after Spencer’s diagnosis. They had promised help with treatment costs.
Beside each charity was an amount.
Thirty-two thousand dollars.
Fifty-eight thousand dollars.
Ninety-one thousand dollars.
At the bottom of the page appeared a company name Abigail had never seen before.
**Riley Hope Medical Advocacy.**
Owner: **Spencer Riley.**
Abigail stopped breathing.
“My son owns a medical charity?”
Thomas nodded.
“It was established eleven months ago.”
“He never told me.”
“The organization receives donations for patients with rare illnesses.”
“How much money?”
Thomas clicked another document.
“Nearly six hundred thousand dollars.”
Abigail’s voice became faint.
“Where did it go?”
“Consulting fees. Business expenses. Equipment purchases. Most of it moved through companies tied to Dr. Reeves.”
Naomi placed a hand on Abigail’s shoulder.
But Abigail barely felt it.
She saw Spencer at age six, asleep against her chest after a fever.
She saw him at twelve, crying because other boys had mocked his secondhand shoes.
She saw him at twenty-three, promising to repay the money she had lent him for his first business.
She had always believed his failures came from bad luck.
Now she wondered how many of those failures had been inventions designed to keep her rescuing him.
“I heard him on the phone,” Abigail said quietly. “He admitted he was manipulating me.”
Thomas did not look surprised.
“What exactly did he say?”
She repeated the conversation from outside the hospital room.
When she finished, Naomi looked toward Thomas.
“The woman on the speakerphone could have been Celeste.”
“Who is Celeste?” Abigail asked.
Thomas turned the screen toward her.
A photograph appeared of a stylish woman with auburn hair standing beside Dr. Reeves at a charity banquet.
Abigail recognized the voice in her memory before she recognized the face.
“That was her.”
“Celeste Ward,” Thomas said. “Director of patient outreach for the hospital. She identifies vulnerable families, helps them apply for financial assistance, and introduces them to Reeves’s treatment program.”
Abigail studied the picture.
Celeste was smiling beside Spencer.
The caption beneath the photograph described them as founders of an initiative supporting chronically ill young adults.
“They know each other,” Abigail whispered.
“They know each other very well,” Naomi answered.
Thomas opened another photograph.
This one had been taken outside a restaurant. Spencer stood with his arm around Celeste’s waist.
The date was six months earlier.
Abigail’s stomach turned.
“She is the woman from the phone.”
“Yes.”
“And they are together.”
“It appears so.”
Abigail closed her eyes.
The betrayal no longer felt like a knife. It felt like a room slowly losing oxygen.
For months, Spencer had told her he was too weak to leave the hospital. Yet here he was dining at restaurants, attending private fundraisers, and posing beside a woman who helped control the money surrounding his illness.