My mother did not come to the hospital to hold my hand.

When I woke up, the jaundice was already fading.

The transplant was a total success. My new liver took to my body like it had always belonged there. Within two weeks, I was moved out of the ICU and into a standard recovery wing. I could eat real food. I could sit up. I could look in the mirror and see a living woman staring back at me.

While I was healing, the Vance family was imploding.

My lawyer, a viciously brilliant corporate attorney named Marcus Thorne, brought me updates. Marcus had taken a personal interest in my case after hearing about the hospital footage.

“Let’s talk about your brother,” Marcus said one afternoon, sitting by my window with a cup of coffee.

“What did Julian do now?” I asked, eating a cup of strawberry jello.

Marcus smirked. “Well, without your three hundred thousand dollars, Julian’s ‘angel investors’ got impatient. It turns out, they weren't Silicon Valley venture capitalists. They were a group of underground loan sharks Julian had borrowed fifty grand from to fund a lavish lifestyle in Miami, claiming his rich sister was going to bail him out.”

I actually laughed. “He borrowed from a cartel?”

“Essentially,” Marcus chuckled. “When Julian’s face was splashed across the Seattle Times for his involvement in your attempted murder, the loan sharks realized the money wasn't coming. They repossessed his leased Tesla, emptied his luxury apartment, and he is currently working the graveyard shift at a 24-hour gas station in Tacoma to pay off the interest so they don't break his legs.”

“And my parents?”

“Bail was denied,” Marcus said, his smile fading into a look of absolute legal dominance. “Eleanor is in a maximum-security holding facility. Arthur is in county. Their assets were frozen due to the civil suit I filed against them on your behalf. They are using a public defender.”

My mother, a woman who wouldn't be caught dead wearing off-brand shoes, was sharing a toilet with violent offenders and relying on a burnt-out public defender. The poetic justice was so sweet I could taste it.

“When is the trial?” I asked.

“Next month,” Marcus said. “They want to offer a plea deal. I told the District Attorney we won't accept anything less than a decade in prison. You’ll need to testify, Clara. Are you ready for that?”