Chapter 4

My child was beaten, starved, and trampled on like she was a beast for eight years in that hellhole.

I folded the report and tucked it into the deepest pocket of my file bag.

After wiping my face, I stood up, walked out, and hailed a cab to go home.

Before I could get the key into the lock, I heard a stranger's voice inside.

I pushed the door open.

Jennifer was in the living room with a man in a suit, measuring the walls.

"If we knock down this wall, you'll get an extra 86 square feet. Don't worry, Ms. Reed. Our company can help you get it sold in no time," the man said.

He was a real estate agent.

Jennifer saw me come in, looking like she had every right to be there.

"Michelle, I've had someone check out the house. We could sell it in a week, tops. Henry's life matters way more than this rundown place," she said.

I stood in the doorway, not moving.

"Jennifer, this house was my parents' wedding gift to me," I said.

"So what?" Jennifer replied, her voice rising. "You married into the Johnstons, so you're part of the family now.

"Everything your parents gave you is the Johnston family's property.

"Henry's sick as hell, and you don't care?

"Do you even have a conscience?"

I stared at her, watching as she jabbed her finger in my face, giving me an earful.

The real estate agent off to the side cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh, the property deed needs to be signed by the owner..."

"I'm not selling," I cut him off.

My voice wasn't loud, but it was clear.

Jennifer's finger froze in mid-air. "What did you say?"

"I said I'm not selling this house," I replied.

"Michelle," Jennifer screamed, her voice hitting the roof. "Even if you die here in this house, it's still getting sold."

She turned to the real estate agent. "She's my daughter-in-law. I run this house. Bring the contract tomorrow!"

I gave the real estate agent a hard look. "Get out."

The real estate agent looked from me to Jennifer, grabbed his briefcase, and hurried out.

Jennifer was shaking with rage.

Lance came running out of his room, clutching my bag.

"Mom, how much can I get for this necklace? I want to buy a new phone," he said.

He'd unzipped it and was rummaging around inside.

I snatched it back from him.

He curled his lip in disdain, annoyed.

"You're so stingy. No wonder Dad would rather lose his mind than deal with you," he said.

He rolled his eyes.

"Ms. Miller is way more generous than you. She's my real mom. You're a broke loser," he added.

I stared at him.

I spent eight years raising this kid, and he said that to me with no guilt in his eyes.

I zipped up my bag and kept it behind me.

Jennifer came at me again. "Fine, don't sell the house.

"Go and tell Ms. Miller you're on your own for 30 thousand a month from now on. Or else I'll sue you for neglecting your sick husband."

I looked at her.

Suddenly, I laughed. "Alright, Jennifer."

I nodded.

"I'll go to the sanatorium now and sign that 170 thousand dollar contract," I said.

Jennifer froze for a second, clearly not expecting me to give in so fast.

"Really?" she asked.

"Really," I replied.

I grabbed my coat and headed for the door.

"Henry's my husband. I can't stand by and watch him suffer," I said.

Jennifer's face lit up with a smug grin.

I walked out the door and headed downstairs.

I didn't go toward the sanatorium.

I flagged down a cab and gave the driver a different address.

Forty minutes later, I was sitting in the office of the violent patient ward at the city's psychiatric hospital.

On the desk lay the forged "severe mania" diagnosis that Henry faked.

The doctor sitting across from me examined it, his expression grim.

"This file says he's at the highest risk, homicidal tendencies," he said.

He checked the attached EEG report and medical history summary. "All the paperwork is complete. It's legally admissible."

I nodded. "Yes, doctor. My husband is seriously ill. He's been breaking things at home and threatening people with a knife. I'm at my wits' end as his wife."

My voice trembled enough to sound convincing.

"I'm requesting immediate involuntary commitment," I added.

The doctor slid a document across the desk.

It was the "Consent for Lockup and Shock Therapy for Dangerous Patients."

I read every word.

Then I picked up the pen and signed my name.

"Doctor, my husband is seriously ill. Please use the highest level of shock therapy. Don't go easy on him," I said.

The doctor gathered the documents and stamped them with the official seal.

"No worries. We have a specialized team to handle violent patients and take care of the transfer. After you sign, head home and wait for updates," he said.

I stood up and took a picture of the consent form, with the stamp visible.

As I walked out of the psychiatric hospital, the sun was shining bright.

I stood on the steps and glanced at the photo on my phone.

Every word on that fake medical file was tightening around Henry's neck like a noose.

Since he liked pretending to be nuts, I'd make sure he stayed crazy for the rest of his life.

I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of the sanatorium.

The real show was about to begin.