THREE DAYS BEFORE I “DIED,” MY HUSBAND LEANED IN AND WHISPERED A COUNTDOWN TO MY DEATH — AND TO HIS INHERITANCE. HE THOUGHT I WAS SEDATED. HE THOUGHT I COULDN’T HEAR. HE WAS WRONG.

The Countdown to My “Death”

Seventy-two hours before I was “scheduled” to die, my husband bent over my hospital bed and whispered a countdown—not to my last breath, but to his big payday. He assumed the drugs had erased me, that I was nothing but a warm, breathing body he could talk over like furniture. He was wrong. I heard every single word.

Three days before my supposed death at Northwestern Memorial, Brandon squeezed my hand and gave me a smile that looked less like love and more like someone mentally tallying dollar signs.

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