Seven Years of Lies, My Vengeful Return

death to save my son' s life. I finally earned the $250,000 for t

talking. It wasn't about a cure. It was a "social experiment," a sev

on it, laughing. Then

o come back. I want Aunt Jai

ning lady. My son pointed at me and told everyone he didn't know me,

sn't a sacrifice; it was a performance. They had

n't know he was Bradford Yates, heir to a billion-dollar dynast

e phone and ca

oming

pte

ssa

up after death was the one that wa

ermanent ghost in my senses. I had worked until my hands were raw, until my back was a constant, screaming knot of pain, all for the number on a screen. Today,

apartment, a lonely end that left a bitter taste in my mouth, but it didn't matter. It was over. No

with space. I imagined his face lighting up, his small hands carefully piecing together the plastic parts. Soon, we' d have all the time in the world for thi

rmanent shadows under my eyes, and my hair was ruthlessly scraped back into a ponytail. I smelled faintly of industrial cleaner. It was a s

all this-was probably in the private family lounge the hospital provided for long-t

oices through the slightly ajar door. I slowed my steps, my han

s health. "The data from the placebo trial is conclusive, Mr. Yates. Dr. Evans has confirmed it. Jos

old. Mr. Yates?

nt. It' s a fascinating social experiment, Bradford. Seven

pressed my ear closer to the door, my heart

e' s worked a job that would make most people vomit just to save up the mone

voice was light, playful. "So, the test is

wrapped around my lungs. This had to

d another six months. Just to be absolutely sure her character is sound. Once she hands over th

aced with something that sounded like excite

n' s voice. Joshua'

want smelly Mommy to come back. She a

rder than a physica

d affectionately. "We just h

ng into a whine. "I want Aunt Jaime. She smells like

to a syrupy coo. "Aunt Jaime will stay with you.

firm, like a CEO closing a deal. "Then the test is comple

that in years. To him, to everyone

s in my hand. I stumbled back from the door, my hand flying to my mout

n ye

wasn't for a cure. It was a test. A loyalty test. An elaborate, cruel game orchestrated by

-stained dollar, was not for a life-saving treatment. It was an en

was data. My sacrifice wasn' t

ands. A gift for a boy who didn' t want

e life w

rom inside the room, a happy little family scene, echoed in

rash can by the elevators. Without hesitating, I lifted the lid an

words a silent scream in

m d

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