My parents called at 1 A.M. screaming, “Wire $20,000—your brother’s in the ER!” I asked one question… and they dodged it. So I said, “Call your favorite daughter,” hung up, and went back to sleep. The next morning… police were at my door.

“Hi,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “I’m trying to locate a patient. Mark Wilson.”

There was a pause while she searched.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said gently. “We don’t have anyone by that name in our emergency department.”

My throat tightened. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Her kindness sounded tired, like she’d said this before today. “If you think someone is impersonating the hospital, please contact law enforcement.”

I ended the call and looked up.

So Mark wasn’t dying. Or at least, not at County General.

Relief hit first, like air rushing back into my lungs. Then rage, hot and shaking, that someone had used the idea of my brother suffering like a crowbar on my bank account.

Green’s expression didn’t change much. “Now the money. This account information isn’t random. Someone either knows you or knows enough about your family to sound convincing.”

My mind flashed back to the call: my mother’s sobbing voice, my father’s clipped command, the way my stomach had obeyed panic before logic arrived.

Green leaned forward. “We can run a controlled response if you’re willing. You reply to the text as if you’re cooperating. Calm, slow, asking for details.”

My stomach flipped. “You want me to play along?”

“Only with us watching,” she said. “You do not send money. You do not click links. You only ask questions and let them reveal themselves.”

A strange steadiness slid into place. Revenge didn’t have to be loud. It could be careful.

I nodded once. “Okay.”

Green dictated and I typed, thumbs surprisingly steady now.

I can wire it. What hospital? What room? Who’s the doctor?

Then we waited.

Five minutes. Ten.

The silence felt like the caller had evaporated in daylight, like whatever monster existed at one a.m. didn’t survive accountability.

Then my phone buzzed.

Stop asking. Just send. He’s suffering.

No hospital name. No doctor. No room.

Green’s eyes sharpened. “Good. That tells me this isn’t about your brother. It’s about controlling you.”

My mouth felt dry again, but it wasn’t fear this time. It was anger that had learned how to stand up straight.

Green slid my phone back across the table like it was a loaded object. “Reply like you’re cooperating, but ask for something they can’t resist giving. A full name. A branch. Anything that creates a trail.”

I swallowed. “What if they don’t answer?”