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The experimental treatment Dr. Harrison had mentioned that might extend my life by precious months. “I need to think about it,” I said finally.
“Of course,” Donald said, standing. “But don’t wait too long. Your health is the priority, and we want to make sure you’re getting the best care possible.”
The house felt different now, like a fortress under siege. I could see their plan clearly. Move me into their guest room, take control of my finances, and let me die quietly and affordably while they positioned themselves to inherit everything.
The cruel irony was that they had no idea how much everything actually was. 3 months ago, just before my diagnosis, I’d finally accepted the buyout offer from MedTech Industries. 47 years of building Annie’s medical supply from a small storefront operation into a regional powerhouse had culminated in an $8.2 million sale.
After taxes and fees, I’d netted just over $6 million. Money that Sandra and Donald assumed didn’t exist. I’d planned to tell them about the sale eventually, maybe set up trust funds for any future grandchildren, ensure Sandra’s financial security, but their visit tonight had shown me exactly what my financial security would buy.
A quick death and a quicker inheritance. The phone rang, startling me from my dark thoughts. The caller ID showed a number I didn’t recognize, but something made me answer.
“Annie.”
The voice was warm, familiar, though I couldn’t place it immediately. “It’s Miguel Santos. I hope I’m not calling too late.”
Miguel Santos.
The name brought back a flood of memories from 30 years ago. A young Portuguese immigrant who’d worked in my warehouse. Charming and hardworking with eyes that held secrets and dreams.
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