My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
“No,” he said. “The wrist injury happened three weeks later when she slipped on the kitchen tiles after a rainstorm. But she realized she could use it to make herself look like the victim if the insurance company started asking questions about why she was on Oakridge Road at midnight.”
“And the physical therapist?” I asked.
“Dr. Vance,” my father said, spitting the name out like a bitter seed. “We paid him four thousand dollars in cash to alter the intake logs at the clinic. He made it look like she had been receiving treatment for her wrist since the day after the wreck, rather than three weeks later when she actually fell.”
“Four thousand dollars,” I repeated, the sum sounding incredibly small for a man’s livelihood.
“It was easy for him,” my father said. “A few strokes on a keyboard. But every time I saw Vance at the grocery store, I felt like a thief. I knew what we had done to Christopher.”
He reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out a small, dark blue velvet box, its hinges tarnished with age.
