Chapter 4

A nurse came in moments after Alec left. Her expression was guarded.

"Mrs. Craig," she started, holding a clipboard. "Your husband signed the initial paperwork. He listed your condition as alcohol-induced gastritis."

She paused, looking at me pointedly. "Is that an accurate diagnosis?"

The lie was so blatant, so demeaning. He was already building a narrative. The unstable ex-con who can' t handle her liquor.

The nurse must have seen something in my face. She sighed and pulled a different chart from behind the clipboard. "This is your actual report. You have a perforated ulcer. It' s bleeding. You need surgery."

She looked at me with a mixture of pity and professional detachment. "This is a pre-existing condition, isn' t it?"

I didn' t answer. I just thought of the endless, sleepless nights in my cell, my stomach on fire, the pain a constant companion. I remembered telling Alec about it during one of his brief, pre-trial visits. He had looked so concerned then. He promised he' d get me the best care, that he' d fix everything.

He' d said, "I love you, Haven. I' ll always take care of you."

What a joke.

The surgery was expensive. I had nothing. My savings were gone, spent on lawyers Alec had recommended, lawyers who had failed me.

I had no choice. I had to call him.

He answered on the second ring. "What is it, Haven? I' m with Catalina."

"I need surgery," I said, my voice flat. "I can' t pay for it."

His sigh was heavy, burdened. "Haven, can' t this wait? You have no idea what I' m dealing with right now. Catalina is a wreck. You' re always so dramatic."

In the background, I could hear her voice, soft and tearful. Then Alec' s tone changed, becoming gentle and soothing. "It' s okay, Cat. I' m here. I' m not going anywhere."

He was comforting her. While I was lying in a hospital bed, bleeding internally.

A strange calm washed over me. The last remnants of hope, of love, of whatever I thought we had, finally withered and died. The pain in my stomach was nothing compared to the vast, cold emptiness inside me.

I couldn' t cry. The feeling was too deep for tears.

Instead, I started to laugh. It wasn' t a happy sound. It was a wild, unhinged laugh that tore from my throat, raw and full of despair. I laughed until my sides ached, until the laughter turned into gasping sobs that produced no tears.

I laughed until I was completely empty.

The next morning, a different nurse came in. "Your surgery has been paid for. Anonymously."

A moment later, a woman walked into the room. Jetta Brennan. My cellmate. My friend. The only person who had my back for three hellish years. She was street-smart, tough as nails, and fiercely loyal.

She took one look at me and swore. "Flores, what the hell did he do to you?"

She tossed a pack of cigarettes onto my bedside table. "You look like shit."

Her bluntness was a strange comfort.

"Still love that bastard?" she asked, lighting a cigarette for herself.

The question hung in the air. Did I? I thought about it. I thought about the man I married and the monster who had taken his place.

My lips twisted into a faint, knowing smile. "I want to destroy him, Jetta. I don' t want him in jail. I want him to lose everything. His career. His reputation. His precious Catalina. I want him to feel what I felt."

"Now you' re talking," Jetta grinned, blowing a smoke ring. "What' s the plan?"

"First thing' s first," I said, my voice gaining strength. "I need a new identity. Can you help with that?"

Jetta' s grin widened. "For you, Flores? Anything."

Alec showed up hours later, after the surgery was over. He rushed in, feigning panic, demanding to see my charts, berating the nurses for not keeping him informed.

The surgeon assured him the procedure was a success.

He visibly relaxed, a wave of relief washing over his face. He actually looked scared. Scared he might have lost me.

I watched him from my bed, a detached observer.

"Look at you," I said, my voice cold. "Pretending to care now that the danger is passed."

He flinched. "Haven, that' s not fair."

He came to my side, trying to take my hand. "I was so worried." He tried to explain the falsified report, blaming an overzealous intern, someone he had already "taken care of."

"Taken care of how?" I asked, my eyes boring into his. "Did you fire them? Or just give them a stern talking-to before you rushed off to comfort Catalina?"