The Last Mystery Box Says No Chapter 02

The Last Mystery Box Says No Chapter 02

The day I was discharged, I packed early.

My daughter wore her only new outfit—a gift from a friend.

I sat on the edge of the bed holding her, waiting for Weston.

All I got was a text.

[Driver’s coming for you. I’m with Brielle, she’s discharged today too and there’s no one to help her over there.]

Unsurprising, and exactly what I’d expect.

Ever since Brielle had become a widow, he’d never once said no to her.

I stared at the screen a few seconds, closed the chat, didn’t reply.

The driver was punctual, the car spotless.

My daughter fussed against me—time to feed her.

I pulled out a bottle. The driver glanced back in the mirror, looking uncomfortable.

“Ma’am… I’m sorry… Mr. Ashcroft said not to eat or drink anything in the car.”

I froze. “I’m just feeding her, it won’t get anything dirty.”

“But Mr. Ashcroft said… please don’t put us in a difficult spot, ma’am.”

I put the bottle away and held her tighter.

She cried from hunger the whole ride. I patted her back gently, the whole way.

Once home, I opened my phone and saw a video Brielle had posted.

She sat in Weston’s passenger seat, a box of imported cherries in front of her, popping them one by one.

Red juice splattered everywhere.

Weston drove beside her, glancing over now and then with obvious affection.

My parents sat in the back—Mom holding a bottle to feed Brielle’s baby, Dad wiping the chin with a small towel, laughing so hard his eyes disappeared.

One big happy family.

I swiped the video away.

The doorbell rang that afternoon.

Brielle stood there holding her baby, plump and pink-cheeked.

She peeked past me into the living room, saw the crib, and laughed behind her hand.

“Sabrina, that crib is so old. Isn’t Weston supposed to be loaded?”

I said nothing.

She pulled a bag from her purse and handed it over.

“These are clothes my baby outgrew. Don’t be offended, the fabric’s really nice.”

“Weston bought all of it—some pieces cost a few thousand each.”

She glanced at my daughter and her smile didn’t change.

“Sabrina, why’s yours so skinny?”

I took the bag, forced out a thank-you.

I shut the door, threw the bag in the trash.

That evening, Harper called.

“I saw Brielle’s video, it made me so angry! She’s doing it on purpose! And Weston—you lost so much blood giving birth, how could he treat you like this?”

“Don’t hold it in, whatever the baby needs, tell me, I’ll buy it.”

“Harper, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, you’re my number one!”

My throat tightened. At least I still had one person on my side.

I hung up and started packing.

A few outfits for me and the baby, our IDs, one small bag—shoved to the back of the closet.

Weston came home at some point without me noticing, leaning against the bedroom doorframe, watching.

He gave a short laugh

“If you want money for clothes, just say so. Don’t put on the sad-widow act for me.”

I didn’t turn around.

He walked over, suddenly wrapped his arms around me from behind, chin resting on my head.

Alcohol on his breath, his voice low.

“Sabrina. Stop this.”

For a second I felt dizzy.

Years ago he’d held me the same way—I’d been caught in the rain, running a fever, and he’d driven all night from out of town to get to me.

He’d wrapped me up then and said, “Never wait out the rain alone again.”

Now, the same warm embrace, only because he was drunk.

The man who used to drive through the night for me hadn’t even shown up when his own daughter and I left the hospital.

I gently moved his hands away.

“I’m not putting on an act.”

At three in the morning, my daughter cried.

I picked her up to feed her, she sucked a few times and cried harder—not enough milk.

I dug through every drawer. No formula.

I checked my phone. Balance: $9.90.

3:10 a.m.

3:30.

4:00.

She wouldn’t stop crying.

I paced the living room holding her, circle after circle.

Weston’s bedroom door was shut. He slept soundly.

I kissed her forehead. “Baby, Mom’s sorry.”

“Just a few more days. Mom will get you out of here, I promise.”

My daughter’s fever hit 103.6°F.

I ran her into the ER, checked in, waited in line, shaking all over.

The doctor pulled off his stethoscope, frowning.

“She’s malnourished. Weight’s dangerously low. Her immune system is severely compromised.”

He looked up at me, voice hard.

“This is dangerous for a newborn. Is this what kind of mother you are?”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

My monthly living expenses are a mere $9.90.

I called Weston. He actually came.

Hope flickered in my chest.

Three years of marriage, and this was the first time I’d ever begged him for anything.

“She needs specialized formula, and supplements. Can we please stop with the mystery boxes, just give me a normal allowance.”

He looked at me for a few seconds, pulled out a card from his pocket, and tossed it over.

“Two thousand in there. That’s plenty.”

“It’s not enough. The doctor said the follow-up tests and—”

His voice suddenly went cold.

“Sabrina, $1.88 million wasn’t enough to fill your appetite, and now two thousand’s too little?”

“When you rigged that mystery box to sink your hooks into me, did you think about how this would end?”

“That box wasn’t mine!” For my daughter’s sake, I finally shouted it out.

“My parents did it behind my back to help Brielle with her dowry and a down payment! It has nothing to do with me!”

Weston froze for a second, then laughed.

“Sabrina Whitlock, you’ll lie about anything for money.”

“Lied about the baby being sick, and now you’re making up stories.”

He looked down at me, disgust in his eyes.

“Don’t think having a kid gives you leverage. You think I don’t know what game you’re playing?”

His phone rang.

A name popped up on the screen: Brielle.

He answered, his voice instantly softening.

“You’re there? Which exam room? I’m on my way.”

He hung up, didn’t look at me once, and walked away.

So he hadn’t come to the hospital for me and our daughter at all.

He’d come for Brielle’s baby’s checkup.

I stood in the hallway holding my sobbing daughter, watching his back disappear around the corner.