The Broken Mother's Ruthless Revenge

Warmth.

It was the first thing she felt. Heavy, thick blankets. A soft beeping sound.

Beverley opened her eyes. The ceiling was white. The room smelled of antiseptic.

A woman in scrubs was adjusting an IV bag on the pole next to the bed. She saw Beverley move and let out a sigh of relief.

"Mrs. Stevenson? Can you hear me?"

Beverley swallowed. Her throat was raw. "What happened?"

"You're at New York Presbyterian," the nurse said. "A snowplow driver saw your car stuck on the curb. You were unconscious. Your core temperature was dropping fast. Another half hour, and we wouldn't have been having this conversation."

Beverley closed her eyes. She was alive. She wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

"Was my husband... did he come?" she asked.

The nurse's expression tightened. She shook her head slowly. "Mr. Stevenson hasn't been here. But he did call the nurses' station. He asked about the condition of another patient. Ms. Frederick."

Beverley let out a bitter laugh that hurt her chest. Of course.

The nurse—her name tag read Brenda Carr—pulled up a chair. She sat down, looking nervous. She glanced at the door, then back at Beverley.

"Mrs. Stevenson," Brenda whispered. "I was on duty the day your son had his surgery."

Beverley's head snapped toward her. The fog in her brain cleared instantly.

"I shouldn't be telling you this," Brenda said, wringing her hands. "But I can't sleep. I keep seeing his face."

"Tell me," Beverley said, her voice hard.

"The anesthesia log," Brenda said, her voice trembling. "The dosage they gave Aiden... it was way too low. Dr. Caldwell, the surgeon, he argued with the hospital administrators about it. He said it wasn't safe. But they overruled him."

"Why?" Beverley asked, leaning forward, ignoring the pain in her chest.

"They said they needed to keep the tissue viable," Brenda whispered, tears in her eyes. "They wanted him conscious enough to... I don't know. But he was in pain, Mrs. Stevenson. He was awake during the surgery."

Beverley felt like she had been punched in the stomach. Aiden, awake. Aiden, in pain. While Ellwood was planning a fireworks show.

"Dr. Alistair Caldwell," Beverley repeated, locking the name away.

"Please, don't tell them I told you," Brenda begged, standing up. "I have to go."

She hurried out of the room.

Beverley didn't hesitate. She pulled the IV needle out of her arm. Blood welled up, but she ignored it. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she gripped the side of the bed to steady herself. She swung her legs over the side. The nurse had thoughtfully placed her personal effects, now dry, in a plastic bag on the bedside table. She grabbed her coat, her phone—now with 3% battery—and her car keys.

A doctor tried to stop her at the door, but she pushed past him. "I'm leaving. Sign the papers or don't. I don't care."

She took the elevator down to the basement parking garage. She needed to find her car. She needed to find Dr. Caldwell.

The garage was dim. The concrete pillars cast long shadows. She spotted her car—the front end was crumpled, evidence of the crash. A tow truck had brought it here, leaving it parked crookedly in a corner spot.

She was walking toward it when she heard a voice.

"Ellwood, I told you it's fine."

Beverley stepped back into the shadows. Kaleigh Frederick walked out from between two parked cars. Her son Ryan was trailing behind her, holding a toy truck.

Kaleigh's arm was wrapped in a thick, bulky bandage, identical to the one Ellwood had been wearing. It looked serious, but as she gestured, the edge of it slipped, revealing perfectly unblemished skin for a fraction of a second before she quickly tugged it back into place.

Ryan saw Beverley walking toward her car. He ran over and threw his toy truck near the rear tire.

Beverley frowned. She didn't have time for this. She pulled out her phone to call a cab instead—her car was clearly undrivable.

Ryan suddenly darted toward her car. He threw himself onto the ground behind the rear tire, screaming.

"Ryan!" Kaleigh shrieked. She ran over, scooping the boy up into her arms. "Oh my god! Beverley! How could you try to run him over?"

Ryan was wailing, clutching his knee. There wasn't a scratch on him.

Kaleigh looked up at Beverley. Her eyes were wide with mock terror, but underneath the act, there was a smirk. A cold, calculating smirk that said, "I own you."

Beverley understood instantly. It was a setup. A perfect, little trap.

Heavy footsteps—uneven, accompanied by the thump of a cane—echoed from the other end of the garage.

Ellwood appeared, his face dark, his burned arm in a sling, his injured leg forcing him into a pronounced limp. He must have been upstairs with Kaleigh.

He saw Ryan crying. He saw Kaleigh on the ground. He saw Beverley standing near her wrecked car.