Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Was Supposed to Be Dying
I found the fundraiser while still locked inside the bathroom.
The page used a photograph from my baby shower.
I stood beneath a yellow balloon arch wearing a floral dress with one hand curved over my stomach.
I remembered the photograph.
Jason had taken it.
Diane had asked me to send her the original because she said she wanted it framed.
Instead, my smiling pregnant face now sat above a headline:
HELP EMILY FIGHT CANCER AND SAVE BABY AVA.
Target:
$250,000.
Raised:
$186,420.
More than three thousand donations.
My unborn daughter’s name had already been chosen.
Ava.
That was why seeing it there felt almost obscene.
I scrolled.
The campaign claimed I had been diagnosed with pregnancy associated lymphoma at twenty six weeks.
False.
It said doctors were worried treatment would trigger premature delivery.
False.
It said Jason had reduced his work hours to care for me full time.
False.
He left home every morning claiming he was meeting clients for Carter Renovation Group.
It said our insurance had denied experimental treatment.
False.
There had never been an oncology claim because there had never been an oncologist.
Then came the pictures.
One of me asleep on the couch.
Caption:
Emily after another exhausting treatment.
A photograph of me receiving IV fluids for dehydration at sixteen weeks.
Caption:
Another difficult hospital day.
A picture of my prenatal vitamins beside the sink.
An ultrasound photograph.
A picture of me vomiting during first trimester that I did not even know Jason had taken.
Each normal pregnancy moment had been turned into evidence of a disease I did not have.
Then the campaign updates.
Supposedly written by Jason.
Emily is afraid she may never meet Ava.
I stopped breathing for a second.
Another:
She made me promise that if anything happens, our daughter will know how hard her mom fought.
I had never said that.
I was not dying.
Yet thousands of strangers believed my husband was preparing to raise our child without me.
Outside the bathroom, Jason lowered his voice.
“Emily.”
I did not answer.
“We can fix this.”
I kept recording.
Diane said:
“Jason, people are demanding medical proof.”
“End it.”
“You told me not to.”
“End it now.”
“If we shut down now, it looks guilty.”
I stared at the locked door.
“It is guilty.”
Then another comment appeared.
I donated $1,000 yesterday. I want an explanation.
Another:
I recorded him holding her down.
Another:
Someone needs to call police.
Sarah Whitman commented again.
Emily, if you can see this, please call emergency services.
That brought me back to the immediate danger.
I dialed 911.
The dispatcher answered.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“My husband held me down and shaved part of my head against my will. I’m seven months pregnant. His mother is livestreaming it while claiming I have cancer so people will donate.”
There was the smallest pause.
Then professionalism.
“Give me your address.”
I did.
“Are you physically injured?”
“My scalp is scraped. There’s a little blood.”
“Any abdominal injury?”
“No.”
“Contractions?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Is the person who hurt you still trying to get inside?”
Jason hit the door again.
“Yes.”
“Stay behind the locked door. Officers are being dispatched.”
I turned the speaker volume down.
Jason must have heard enough.
“You called police?”
“Yes.”
Diane shouted:
“Emily, stop! You’re making this worse!”
I walked close to the door.
“What exactly is worse than inventing cancer and shaving a pregnant woman for donations?”
No answer.
Then Jason softened his voice.
“Come out. We’ll explain everything together.”
“Together?”
“Yes.”
“You talk while your mother films me crying?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“It’s exactly what you mean.”
Diane said:
“Just tell viewers Sarah doesn’t know your entire diagnosis.”
“I DO NOT HAVE A DIAGNOSIS!”
The baby kicked.
I pressed my palm against my belly.
In.
Out.
Breathe.
Then Jason whispered something to his mother.
I only caught the end.
“What about the payouts?”
My attention sharpened.
Diane hissed:
“Not now.”
“How much is still sitting there?”
“Most.”
“Most?”
“Jason, stop talking.”
Payouts.
Money had already moved.
Sirens approached.
Diane finally ended the livestream.
The page went dark.
But my screen recording continued.
So did hundreds of other recordings.
Police knocked hard.
“Police department!”
Jason shouted:
“She locked herself in the bathroom!”
A man answered:
“Step away from that door.”
“I’m her husband.”
“Step away.”
Then a woman’s voice.
“Emily? My name is Officer Tara Grant. Jason is in the living room now. Diane is in the kitchen. Can you open the door?”
“Are they away from me?”
“Yes.”
I unlocked it.
Officer Grant looked at my scalp.
Then my belly.
“Do you want paramedics?”
“Yes.”
That one word felt strangely important.
Yes.
Jason shouted from living room:
“This was a fundraiser stunt!”
Another officer ordered him to stop talking to me.
Diane called out:
“She knew we were raising money!”
I turned toward kitchen.
“No, I didn’t.”
Diane’s eyes dropped.
Police separated us.
No dramatic instant arrest.
They photographed:
The chair.
Hair on the floor.
Clippers.
Ring light.
My scalp.
The closed bathroom door.
Phones.
Officer Grant asked:
“Who created the fundraiser?”
“I didn’t know it existed until twenty minutes ago.”
“Have you received any money?”
“No.”
“Have you authorized Jason or Diane to use your medical information?”
“No.”
From the kitchen Diane shouted:
“No money has been taken out!”
An officer immediately told her to stop answering across rooms.
At the hospital, fetal monitoring showed Ava’s heartbeat was reassuring.
No contractions.
No abdominal injury.
My scalp had three superficial abrasions and one small cut that needed medical adhesive.
No deep wound.
No permanent injury expected.
I cried when the doctor said Ava was fine.
Then Detective Laura Mendoza arrived.
She specialized in domestic violence and financial crimes coordination.
She did not begin with Jason’s character.
She asked what happened.
I told her.
Then she asked about the campaign.
The fundraising platform had already suspended it after hundreds of viewer reports.
Gross donations:
$186,420.
Amount still controlled by the platform:
About $121,300.
Amount already paid out:
$65,120.
I stared at her.
“Paid where?”
She looked down at preliminary records.
“An account ending in 8842.”
“Mine?”
“No.”
“Jason’s personal account?”
“No.”
“A business account?”
“Yes.”
I knew before she said the name.
“Carter Renovation Group.”
She nodded.
Diane had shouted that none of the money had moved.
That statement was already false.
And when investigators obtained the first account history, they discovered the fundraiser had not been created to save a baby.
May you like
It had been created to save Jason’s collapsing company.
Continue to the next chapter: More than $65,000 in fake cancer donations had already reached Jason’s business, and the transaction history showed Diane had received money too.
