The Last Mystery Box Says No Chapter 03

The Last Mystery Box Says No Chapter 03

Outside the hospital.

“Sabrina.”

Brielle’s voice from behind. Her baby was plump, dressed head to toe in a designer onesie.

She glanced at my thin, sallow-faced daughter, something flickering in her eyes.

Then she pulled a can of formula from the postpartum nurse’s diaper bag and handed it to me.

“My baby can’t finish this, you take it.”

“Weston felt bad for us, poor widow and orphan, bought a whole hundred cases.”

I looked at that can. $1,800 a container.

My daughter’s entire monthly allowance couldn’t cover one scoop of her baby’s formula.

I clenched my fist and took the handout.

That night I called my mother.

“Mom, the baby needs to be hospitalized. Can you lend me some money?”

Silence on the other end for a few seconds.

“Brielle just gave birth too, she needs money. Go ask your husband!”

“Mom—”

“Enough, enough, stop calling. Brielle’s in her recovery period, you’re disturbing her.”

The line went dead.

Late that night, I fell asleep on the couch holding my daughter.

I woke to find a blanket over us.

Half-asleep, I saw Weston bending down, moving carefully, as if afraid to wake something.

The next morning, though, a fresh pile of mystery boxes sat on the breakfast table.

He sat across from me, sipping coffee, chin tilting toward the boxes.

“Draw.”

I looked at them and suddenly felt exhausted by the whole thing.

“Weston, I’m tired. I’m done drawing.”

His hand paused on the mug.

He only lifted his eyes, scrutinizing me.

“New trick for money? Last time it was the sick baby, what’s the act this time?”

I didn’t answer.

I turned to make formula from Brielle’s charity can for my daughter.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Harper had texted: [Sabrina, there’s something I don’t know if I should tell you…]

The next message was still typing.

My daughter started crying again in the living room.

The thermometer flashed a number.

104.2°F.

I switched off my phone and rushed her out the door.

Outside the ER, I called Weston from the hallway.

No answer on the first try.

The fifth. The tenth.

My hands shook too hard to hold the phone.

He finally picked up on I don’t know which attempt.

“What?”

“She’s having a fever emergency, they’re doing everything they can.”

“The doctor says she needs surgery right away and I don’t have the money, Weston, please come pay the bill.”

Silence for a beat. “How much?”

“The doctor said at least eight thousand.”

He gave a cold laugh.

“Sabrina, a leopard really can’t change its spots. Two thousand was too little last time, now you’re quadrupling it?”

I crouched in the hallway, my voice shaking as I cried.

“Weston, I’m begging you. She’s really in critical condition, the doctor said if we don’t pay now there won’t be time for surgery. I’m really begging you.”

Silence on the line.

“I’m on my way.”

I leaned against the wall and waited an hour.

No sign of him at the end of the hallway.

I called again. Phone off.

Later I found out he’d gotten a call from Brielle right before he left.

“Weston, the baby won’t stop coughing, I’m so scared…”

He hesitated, then went to her first.

When he got there, it turned out the baby had just choked on some milk. Nothing wrong at all.

But Brielle tugged his sleeve and said she was scared, asked him to stay a little longer.

He walked to the door, then turned back.

Meanwhile, back at my end, the nurse ran out a third time demanding payment.

“The baby’s condition is critical, if we don’t get payment now, it’s really going to be too late!”

I knelt at the payment window and emptied out everything I had.

Phone. Wallet. $9.90.

Too late.

The doors to the operating room opened.

The doctor pulled down his mask, looked at me.

“Malnutrition, severely compromised immunity, complications from the high fever—”

He shook his head.

“If we’d operated in time, there might have been a chance.”

“We did everything we could.”

The nurse carried my daughter out and handed her to me.

So small. So light.

Her hand was still curled the way it had gripped my finger that night.

But now, it wouldn’t let go.

Tears fell one by one.

The nurse patted my back sympathetically, handed me a form to sign.

I don’t remember how I signed it.

Eight thousand dollars—barely the price of one outfit on Brielle’s baby.

But it had cost me my daughter’s life.

This time, I didn’t call anyone.

Weston’s message came later.

[Baby’s fine now, right? Stop with the emergency calls, I’m busy.]

I didn’t reply.

A minute later, another one.

[Throwing a tantrum again?]

[Last time two thousand wasn’t enough, now you’re using the sick kid as leverage again?]

[Sabrina, can you switch up your material for once?]

I stared at that line, tears rolling down as I laughed.

He still thought, even now, that I was scheming for money.

I closed the chat and made a call.

“Attorney Reeves, I want a divorce.”

A pause, then the sound of typing on the other end stopped.

“Ms. Whitlock… our system shows no marriage record between you and Mr. Ashcroft.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Ashcroft’s legal spouse of record is… Brielle Whitlock.”