When I left the Hilton in downtown Chicago, the neon lights made my tired face look pale. There were still cars blaring and people laughing in the nearby taverns, but inside me, everything was calm.
Mr. Grant, my boss, had just left. I was wearing a wrinkled work shirt and felt like I had nothing in my chest.
My purse made my phone buzz.
I took it out. The screen showed a notification that said, “Deposited: $6,000.” My heart raced when I saw how much money I made.
But I still didn’t feel better.
My name is Emily Carter, and I am 28 years old. He works in an office and lives in a little apartment on the suburbs of Chicago. Things have been rather unusual in my life for a while now.
A car accident two years ago left my husband Jake paralyzed from the neck down. I’ve been his nurse, caretaker, and provider ever since. Giving him food, bathing him, and changing him. Every single day. Like a woman with a shell around her, who is running on empty.
But tonight, I did something I never thought I would do.
That morning, Mr. Grant asked me to come into his office.
Mr. Grant was a powerful man in his late fifties who often gazed at me with eyes that made me feel uneasy.
“Emily,” he said, “do you want to help your husband?”
I nodded. My heart was already beating fast.
He moved a piece of paper across his desk. There was a big print of $6,000 at the top. What do you get in exchange? The best part was spending the night with him. We stayed at a hotel together.
I paused.
Jake needed surgery right away. The doctors said he wouldn’t make it through the next six months without it. We were broke. Our families had done everything they could.
I signed it with my name. My fingers were shaking so much that my name didn’t look like mine.
I was numb at the motel. I didn’t let myself think. I was just there.
Mr. Grant wasn’t rude. He was almost nice, in fact. But every second felt like a knife going through my soul.
When it was ended, he handed me an envelope and said, “You did well.” You saved his life.
I didn’t say anything. They just nodded and walked away.
The kitchen smelt like rice porridge when I went back to our little apartment in Cicero.
Jake was still in bed, staring at the ceiling with a blank look on his face. I sat next to him, took a spoonful of oatmeal, and slowly brought it to his lips.
“I worked extra hours today.” I’m tired.
A lie.
He nodded slowly and didn’t say anything.
I looked at him, the man I used to love with all my heart. Now it’s just quiet skin and bones.
Tears fell into the basin without making a sound.
Again, my phone buzzed.
There was twelve thousand dollars. A second deposit.
I became stiff.
Mr. Grant?
The note added, “You deserve better.” Don’t tell anyone.
My chest felt tight.
Did they pay you to be quiet? A trap? Did you feel uneasy?
I had no idea.
The next day, I went to work with my nerves on edge.
But Mr. Grant wasn’t there. His aide stated he had flown to New York that morning.
I took a breath that seemed unsure. A break? Maybe. But something didn’t feel right.
Then there was another message.
A number that isn’t known:
“Thanks for last night, Emily.” I’m Jake, but I’m not your Jake.
My skin got cold.
I called the number.
Not linked.
I rushed home.
Jake was still where I left him, staring at nothing.
“Do you know anything?” I asked in a low voice.
He looked at me. Then, slowly, he smiled.
“Emily, I know you’ve worked very hard.” But are you sure the guy in the hotel room was really your boss?
My blood turned chilly.
I took the contract out again. Mr. Grant did not sign it.
It said: Jake Harrison.
It had my husband’s whole name on it.
I glanced at the record of the deposit.
Also from: Jake Harrison.
I couldn’t sleep that night.
I sat next to Jake and attempted to figure it out.
Who had I really been with?
At three in the morning, there was another message.
“Don’t look for me.” Just spend the cash. Give him a hand. He has had enough.
I read it again.
And again.
Who was “he”?
Was the man next to me really a victim who couldn’t do anything?
Or something else?
I checked my bank account and saw that I had $18,000.
And I knew—
This wasn’t the end.
Because maybe…
The man I had been taking care of for two years was not who I thought he was.
