Cancer steals many things, but in my case, it stole the truth. Or so I thought, until a weary nurse pressed a note into my hand: “Room 407 after 9 PM. Bring a camera.”
What I witnessed that night shattered me. Eric – who could barely lift a spoon at noon – was doing push-ups by moonlight. A sleek brunette handed him passports and bank details. Their conversation chilled me more than any diagnosis: “Once they bury the empty casket…”
I planned my revenge carefully. Family flew in for his “final days.” Colleagues brought farewell gifts. His mistress even came to gloat – until I played their conspiracy on the hospital television.
The police found $250,000 already transferred to the Caymans. The “oncologist” had never treated cancer before. And Eric? He’s serving seven years for fraud. As for me? I kept the insurance money – and my freedom.
