Chapter 2 - WHAT LOVE HAD COST
Marianne locked the ticket inside a flour tin and called the unknown number from her landline.
A woman answered on the second ring.
“My name is Naomi Price,” she said. “I handle the books at Derek’s shop.”
Marianne recognized the voice from the hospital speakerphone.
“You were laughing with him.”
“I wasn’t laughing.”
“You knew he was pretending to be sick.”
A pause followed, long enough for Marianne to hear traffic through Naomi’s phone.
“I knew he exaggerated,” Naomi said. “I didn’t know how far it had gone until recently.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No. It isn’t.”
Naomi explained that Derek had access to Marianne’s email because he had set up her phone after her husband died. Three days earlier, an automated message from the state lottery account had appeared in Marianne’s inbox. Derek had seen the subject line before Marianne changed the password.
He didn’t know the exact amount, but he knew she had a substantial prize pending.
Marianne opened her laptop and searched the trash folder. Messages she had never deleted were missing: bank notices, mortgage statements, and confirmations from the lottery account.
Naomi continued carefully.
“Derek’s business is worse than he told you. The hospital story started after Coastal Printworks lost the county school contract. He owes vendors, equipment lenders, payroll taxes, and the landlord.”
“He told me the money was for treatment.”
“Some of it kept the shop open.”
Some.
The word landed harder than a number.
Marianne looked around the kitchen her husband, Thomas, had renovated before pancreatic cancer took him six years earlier. Derek had begun calling more often after the funeral. At first, Marianne had been grateful. He changed lightbulbs, handled online accounts, and ate dinner with her every Sunday.
Then came emergencies.
A failed compressor. A landlord dispute. A medical test insurance refused to cover. Each crisis arrived with the same apologetic phrase.
I hate asking you, Mom.
Marianne had mistaken shame for honesty.
“What’s worse than faking the illness?” she asked.
Naomi lowered her voice.
“There’s an application using your house as collateral. Derek said you agreed to it.”
Marianne stood so quickly that her chair scraped the floor.
“I agreed to nothing.”
“He said the paperwork was already signed.”
On the refrigerator, beneath a magnet from Tybee Island, hung a photograph of Derek at ten years old, grinning with Thomas beside a homemade go-kart.
May you like
Marianne had spent years protecting the boy in that picture.
Now she needed to find out what the man had done with her name.
