I typed out a reply:
"Okay. I'll pick you up in three days."
Three days later, I didn't expose Kathleen's lies. I went to the prison gates to collect her.
I spotted her from a distance—dressed in tattered clothes, playing the part of a woman ruined by bankruptcy. She'd even used makeup to paint a fake scar across her face.
When she saw me, she limped over, throwing herself into my arms.
"Abner!"
She clung to me, eyes brimming with tears.
"I worked so hard to atone while I was inside. They said my behavior was exemplary, so they released me early." Her voice trembled with practiced emotion. "Abner, these past few years must have been so hard on you."
She looked at me with such devotion—as if she'd truly suffered three years behind bars.
I gently pushed her away, my expression unchanged. "It's good you're out."
Kathleen faltered, something flickering in her eyes. She seemed to sense something was off. But then, in the next instant, she grabbed my wrist.
"Abner, what happened to your wrist?"
Her concern looked genuine. The worry in her face didn't seem fake.
But I found it laughable.
Kathleen, what are you pretending for?
You're the one who sent those people—the ones disguised as debt collectors who beat me until I looked like this.
And now you play innocent?
A hollow weariness settled over me. Or maybe I was just afraid to face what would happen when the lies finally crumbled.
"It's nothing. I fell." I pulled my hand free. "The doctor said it'll heal with time."
Kathleen exhaled, visibly relieved. "That's good."
She reached for my hand again, lacing her fingers through mine with exaggerated tenderness.
"The injury's on your right wrist. If it gets worse and affects your painting, you'll be devastated." Her voice dripped with saccharine concern.
Every word was a knife.
I used to have extraordinary talent. International awards, critical acclaim—everyone said I had a brilliant future ahead of me.
But for the drug trials. For the money.
To get Kathleen out of prison sooner.
I let them destroy my wrist.
Now I can't even hold a brush.
And it turns out all of it—every sacrifice—was just part of some twisted punishment game Kathleen had orchestrated.
How pathetic.
I stayed silent the entire drive. Kathleen grew visibly nervous, filling the quiet with a stream of chatter—stories about prison life, carefully rehearsed anecdotes she'd clearly pulled from the internet.
All to convince me she'd really spent three years locked away.
I listened without hearing, and when she finally paused, I asked quietly:
"Kathleen."
"Did I do something wrong?"
She went rigid. Her eyes reddened as she turned to face me.
"What do you mean, Abner? Why would you ask that?"
My mind drifted to the last time I'd been allowed to visit.
I'd been so happy. I'd saved up my meager allowance for weeks, bought meat and vegetables, cooked everything myself, and brought it to her.
No wonder she'd wrinkled her nose and refused to eat.
The food was too cheap for her.
Of course it was. I thought she'd been suffering in prison for three years.
But the whole time, she'd been traveling the world with her male assistant—dining on imported delicacies and five-star meals.
Why would she ever lower herself to share my hardship?
Even that prison visit had been theater. A hundred and twenty dollars to rent out the scene and play her part.
Three years. Three years I'd been their fool, their plaything, spinning in circles while they laughed.
Tears slid down my cheeks before I could stop them.
Kathleen's composure cracked. She lunged forward, dabbing at my face.
"Abner, why are you crying? Did someone hurt you?"
