Chapter 3
Emily
I leaned against the doorframe, coffee mug in hand, watching Chloe's performance with the trained eye of someone who'd spent ten years diagnosing illness in creatures that couldn't speak.
Chloe's skin had a healthy flush that contradicted the pallor I'd expect from someone undergoing aggressive treatment.
Most telling of all, she attacked her breakfast with an appetite that would make a linebacker jealous.
"Chloe," I said carefully, setting my mug down, "which oncologist prescribed your current regimen? I'd like to research the side effects."
She froze mid-chew. "Oh, it's... Dr. Peterson at Mayo. Very specialized treatment, you wouldn't understand."
We called this malingering, I thought, studying her defensive posture.
My phone buzzed with a text from Bill Henderson: "Emergency at Thompson north pasture. Cattle down. Martinez can't figure it out."
I drove to the north pasture faster than I should have.
When I arrived, the scene was chaos. Dr. Martinez stood helplessly among a dozen cattle showing severe symptoms—fever, excessive drooling, blistered mouths. Some could barely stand.
"I've never seen symptoms like these," Martinez admitted, his usual confidence shattered. "Maybe we should call the state veterinarian."
I knelt beside the nearest cow, examining her mouth and nostrils with practiced efficiency. The vesicles were classic, unmistakable if you knew what to look for.
"It's vesicular stomatitis," I announced, standing and dusting off my knees. "We need to quarantine immediately and start antiviral treatment."
"How can you be sure?" Martinez asked.
"Because I actually studied large animal diseases," I replied curtly, already pulling out my phone to order the necessary medications. "This farm needs to be isolated until we can confirm the strain."
As I worked, directing the quarantine procedures and administering treatments, I felt the familiar rush of professional competence. This was who I was—not the displaced housewife Chloe had made me feel like.
Bill Henderson watched me work with obvious admiration. "Emily, you just saved my cattle from spreading infection. Why aren't you handling our contracts anymore?"
The question stung because I didn't have a good answer. At least, not one I could voice yet.
By the time I returned home, exhaustion weighed on my shoulders.
But the hardest part of my day was just beginning.
I found Noah in his room, surrounded by his scattered toys and the smell of his afternoon asthma medication. Or rather, what should have been his medication time.
"Noah, let's get your inhaler," I said, reaching for the familiar blue device on his nightstand.
"No," he said firmly, crossing his arms. "Chloe says real cowboys don't need inhalers. She's teaching me to be tough like Dad."
I called out, "Noah Thompson!"
His face crumpled, but defiance still blazed in his eyes. "I wish Chloe was my real mom! She understands me better than you ever will!"
I shouted, "I am your mother! I've kept you alive for eight years!"
The slap happened before I could stop myself. The sound echoed in the small room, and we both froze in shock.
In eight years of motherhood, I had never raised a hand to my child.
Noah's lip trembled, his hand pressed to his reddening cheek. "I hate you," he whispered.
I stumbled backward, my own hand burning with the shame of what I'd done. "Noah, I—"
But he was already running past me, down the stairs, calling for Chloe.
An hour later, Jack found me sitting on the porch steps, staring at the sunset painting the sky in shades of amber and regret.
"You hit our son," he said without preamble. "And you've been interrogating Chloe like she's a criminal."
Inside, I could hear Chloe's voice, weak and trembling: "Jack, maybe I should leave... I don't want to destroy your family."
"Jack," I said quietly, "when did you stop trusting your wife's judgment?"
He stared at me as if I were a stranger. "When my wife stopped showing basic human compassion."
That night, I climbed to the barn's old hayloft, carrying my grandmother's antique glasses. The moon was nearly full, casting everything in silver relief. Through the small window, I had a clear view of the main house.
I settled into the dusty hay, my body aching from the day's emotional beatings. The silence up here was different from the suffocating quiet of the house—it was honest, clean. No performance required.
My hand still burned from striking Noah. Eight years of gentle bedtime stories, scraped knee kisses, and midnight fever watches—all undone by one moment of losing control.
What kind of mother hits her sick child? What kind of wife questions a cancer patient? The words Jack and Noah had thrown at me echoed in the darkness: selfish, cold, heartless.
Maybe they were right. Maybe I was the problem.
I watched my husband move through our kitchen, preparing another "special meal" for our houseguest. I watched my son, already in his pajamas, hanging on Chloe's every word.
I watched the tableau of domestic bliss that had replaced me so seamlessly, so completely, as if eight years of my life could be erased in a single week.
The sight should have broken me. Instead, something cold crystallized in my chest—not hatred, but clarity.
The next morning, I drove to Sunrise Diner before dawn. The parking lot was already full of pickup trucks—this was where the local farmers gathered for their unofficial morning meetings over coffee and Helen's famous biscuits.
I walked in with my shoulders straight and my veterinary emergency kit visible in my hand. Word of yesterday's cattle crisis had already spread.
"Emily!" Mary Johnson called from a corner booth. "Heard you saved Bill's herd yesterday. Your diagnosis yesterday saved us thousands. Why did Martinez take over your contracts?"
I slid into the booth, choosing my words carefully. "Sometimes people take advantage of others' generosity. We need to stay vigilant."
Old Frank Miller, whose family had farmed this land longer than anyone, leaned forward. "The Martin family has always been... opportunistic. Tom's been eying Thompson land for years."
I wasn't the only one seeing the pattern.
Back in my makeshift office in the barn, surrounded by medical texts and scattered documents, I opened Sarah's email with trembling fingers.
[Emily, there's no record of this patient. This is definitely fraudulent documentation.]
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the evidence scattered across my desk. Medical fraud. Land acquisition scheme. A false cancer diagnosis designed to steal my family and my home.