Chapter 3

As I stood there, numb and trapped, the strange blue text scrolled across my vision again, more aggressive this time.

[Path is set? Yeah, a path to misery. They need a live-in caretaker so they can control Rick' s access to the outside world. No lawyers, no financial advisors, no one to notice the money disappearing.]

[They' re not just embezzling. They' re isolating him. Once Chloe is there, they' ll isolate her too. Cut her off from her friends, her support system. Make her completely dependent.]

[This is a classic family tragedy playbook. The greedy relatives, the vulnerable victim, and the sacrificial lamb. Guess who you are, Chloe?]

I felt a chill despite the warmth of the house. A sacrificial lamb. The words resonated with a terrifying truth. I was being served up to protect their interests.

The text wasn't done.

[And it gets worse. After they drain Rick' s accounts, they' ll paint Chloe as the one who was negligent. They' ll say she was partying, that her "illness" made her unstable. She' ll be left with nothing but a ruined reputation and the blame for his death.]

[She ends up broke, alone, and publicly shamed. A true horror story.]

The phrase "horror story" made me think. Their evasiveness about Uncle Rick' s illness. The way they refused to give me a straight answer. "A liver problem. Nothing you can catch." Their behavior was so suspicious, so secretive.

My mind raced. If they were hiding something this big, there had to be proof somewhere. My mother was a worrier. She kept documents. Important papers. She had a small filing cabinet in their bedroom.

While my father was in the garage getting the car ready and my mother was in the kitchen packing a bag of "essentials" for me, I made my move.

I walked as quietly as I could up the stairs and slipped into their bedroom. The air was thick with my mother' s perfume. I went straight to the dark wood filing cabinet in the corner. It wasn' t locked.

My hands trembled as I pulled open the top drawer. Files labeled "Insurance," "Taxes," "Mortgage." I riffled through them, my heart hammering against my ribs. In the very back, tucked behind a folder of old bank statements, was a plain manila envelope with no label.

I pulled it out. Inside was a single, folded document.

It was a lab report from a specialized clinic, dated three weeks ago. The patient' s name was Richard Miller. My uncle.

I scanned the page, my eyes searching for a diagnosis. I found it near the bottom, a string of medical terms I didn' t fully understand, but two letters stood out, stark and undeniable: HIV.

And below that, a note: "Patient is in the advanced stages of AIDS-related liver failure. High viral load. Extreme caution recommended for caregivers regarding contact with bodily fluids."

I felt the blood drain from my face. They knew. They knew he had AIDS, a highly stigmatized and communicable disease, and they were going to send me, their own daughter, to be his primary caregiver without telling me the truth. They were willing to risk my health, my life, for money.

I grabbed the report and stormed back downstairs, my fear replaced by a white-hot rage. I found them in the hallway, standing by the front door with my suitcase.

I held up the paper, my hand shaking so hard the document rattled.

"A liver problem? Nothing I can catch?" I screamed, my voice raw and torn. "You were going to let me walk into that house without knowing he has AIDS? Are you trying to kill me?"