Her words haunted me. Desperate, I secretly set up a camera while Eric was undergoing a scan.
I hid the tiny device inside a hollowed-out book on the shelf facing his bed. My heart pounded so hard I thought the nurses could hear it. When the orderlies wheeled Eric back in, he looked frail and pale, his breathing shallow.
“I’m so tired, baby,” he whispered, gripping my hand weakly. “I just need to sleep.”
“I know,” I said, kissing his forehead, fighting the urge to vomit. “I’m going to go to the cafeteria to get some coffee. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
I walked out, went straight to my car in the parking garage, and pulled up the live feed on my phone.
For the first two minutes, Eric lay perfectly still. Guilt gnawed at me. That woman must be crazy, I thought. I’m spying on my dying husband.
Then the door clicked shut.
On the screen, Eric’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t look tired anymore. He sat up—completely unassisted—and stretched his arms over his head, cracking his neck. The “frail” man who couldn’t lift a spoon yesterday swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked briskly to the closet.
He pulled out a duffel bag and a burner phone. Dialing, he chewed aggressively.
“Hey,” he said, his voice strong and clear. “Yeah, she just left. It’s working perfectly. The doctor thinks the test results are degraded, but he’s buying it because I’m playing it up.”
I pressed my hands to my mouth, too shocked to scream.
“Yeah,” Eric laughed. “GoFundMe’s up to $80,000. Early life insurance payout hits next week. Once the money’s in the offshore account, ‘Eric’ dies, and we meet in Mexico. Just be patient, babe.”
My world shattered. There was no cancer. No tragedy. Just a scam. He was faking it—probably taking something to look sick—to steal money from friends, family, and me, and run off with someone else.
I didn’t go back to the room. I went straight to the police.
The Aftermath
Three hours later, I returned to the hospital—but this time, two officers followed me in.
Eric was back in bed, performing his “dying” act. He gasped when he saw the police.
“Honey? What’s going on?”
“The performance is over, Eric,” I said, holding up my phone. “I saw everything. The jerky. The phone call. Mexico.”
His face went from pale to beet red in seconds. He tried to stammer, but the officers were already moving in. They found the burner phone under his mattress, filled with texts detailing the entire plan with his mistress.
As they handcuffed him and led him away—miraculously walking just fine—I saw a familiar figure by the nurses’ station.
It was the stranger.
I ran over, tears streaming. “You saved me. Who are you?”
She gave me a sad smile. “My name’s Sarah. Five years ago, Eric did the exact same thing to me. Faked a brain tumor. Drained my savings. Vanished. I promised I wouldn’t let him do it to another woman.”
Eric went to prison for fraud and grand larceny. I eventually rebuilt my life, but I never forgot Sarah. Sometimes, the hardest truth is better than the sweetest lie.
