“Harper? It’s done,” Eleanor said smoothly. “He’s on the floor. Bring the blue binder from the safe. We need the medical power of attorney and the Do Not Resuscitate order on the table before anyone calls the paramedics.”
Fifteen minutes later, the front door burst open. Heavy footsteps rushed into the room.
“Dad!” Preston shouted, dropping to his knees beside me. His hands grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. “Oh my god! Mom, what happened? Call 911!”
For a fraction of a second, warmth flooded my chest. He was terrified. He cared. Blood didn’t matter; he was the son I had raised, and he loved me.
But before Preston could pull out his phone, Harper’s voice sliced through the room. “Don’t touch that phone, Preston. Put it down.”
Preston froze. “What are you talking about? He’s having a heart attack!”
“He is supposed to be having a heart attack,” Eleanor corrected coldly, stepping into his line of sight. “He signed a DNR last year, sweetheart. We have to respect his wishes.”
I had never signed a DNR in my life.
Preston looked from his mother to his wife, who was calmly laying out legal documents on the coffee table. The realization dawned on his face. He looked down at me, his eyes wide.
Suddenly, my cell phone, resting in my breast pocket, began to ring loudly. The caller ID would clearly show it was Ms. Sterling.
“Who is that?” Harper snapped.
Preston reached into my pocket and pulled out the ringing phone. He stared at the screen. He looked at my lifeless face. He looked at the staggering pile of debt Harper had racked up. He looked at the multi-million-dollar estate surrounding him.
He had a choice. Save the man who wiped his tears, taught him to ride a bike, and built him an empire, or secure the bag.
Preston’s thumb moved. He pressed the power button, declining the call and turning the phone completely off. Then, he stood up, walked to the antique credenza, and tossed my phone into the bottom drawer.
“Okay,” Preston whispered, his voice shaking but resolute. “We wait.”
Something inside me fractured, violently and irrevocably. The love I had for the boy evaporated, leaving nothing but cold, hardened ash. He wasn’t just a victim of a lying mother. He was an active participant in my murder.
They stood around me, a macabre vigil, coordinating their stories for the police. Harper opened the binder and pointed to a line. “Preston, you need to date his signature here. Use the blue pen.”
I waited until he uncapped the pen.
Then, I took a massive, gasping breath and coughed violently, rolling onto my back.
The silence that hit the room was deafening. It was the sound of three people realizing they were standing in hell.
I blinked, looking up at their horrified faces. I let my eyes unfocus slightly, playing the disoriented survivor.
“What… what happened?” I rasped, clutching my chest.
Eleanor recovered first, though her face was the color of chalk. She threw herself onto the floor, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Oh, thank God! Richard! You collapsed! We were just… we were just about to call the ambulance!”
“Of course I’m alive,” I grumbled, weakly pushing her away and struggling to sit up. “Takes more than a dizzy spell to put me in the ground. Though I feel like I got hit by a truck.”
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