Chapter 5: The Jackpot and the Judas
Exactly one week later—June 13th—I was driving back from a wholesale supplier, my trunk loaded with specialty nuts and dried mushrooms. Parched, I pulled into a local convenience store to grab a sparkling water.
Rhonda, the manager I often made small talk with, was standing behind the register holding a fan of printed state lottery slips.
“Hey, Clara,” she groaned, waving the paper at me. “I accidentally hit print on five identical jackpot draw tickets instead of one. My boss is going to chew me out for the void. Do me a solid and take them off my hands?”
I paused. I was a businesswoman; I didn’t gamble. But a strange, reckless impulse seized me. My divorce was finalized seven days ago. Maybe the slate was wiped clean.
“Sure, Rhonda,” I smiled, pulling out my phone. “If I hit the jackpot, you owe me a coffee.”
I tapped my phone to the Apple Pay terminal. The transaction registered: $50.00. I shoved the five identical slips into my purse, completely ignoring the high-definition security camera mounted directly above Rhonda’s head, silently recording the exact moment my destiny shifted.
It wasn’t until 8:00 P.M. that night, eating leftover turkey standing over my kitchen sink, that I remembered to check the numbers.
I pulled up the state lottery website on my phone and laid the five slips on the counter. I checked the first number. A match. The second. A match.
My breath caught in my throat. I traced my finger down the row of digits, reading them aloud into the empty apartment. Every single number aligned. I flipped to the second ticket. Identical. The third. The fourth. The fifth.
My vision tunneled. Five tickets. Each holding a one-million-dollar grand prize. Five million dollars total.
My legs gave out. I collapsed into a kitchen chair, my hands shaking so violently I dropped my phone. I didn’t scream; the shock was too absolute, too profound. I grabbed the phone and dialed Odette.
“Get over here,” I gasped when she answered. “Now. Lock the door behind you.”
Twenty minutes later, Odette was pacing my living room like a caged panther, holding the tickets under a desk lamp. “You absolute psychopath,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You actually won five million dollars.”
We laughed until we wept, the sheer hysteria of the situation overtaking us. “Unlucky in love, lucky in money,” I choked out, wiping tears from my face.
Odette’s corporate instincts immediately kicked in. She made me sign the backs, photographed them, and locked them in my fireproof safe. “Until the wire hits your account, this money does not exist, Clara. Total radio silence. If you breathe a word of this, the vultures will descend.”
The next few days were a blur of legal trusts, anonymous claims, and tax consultations. When the net amount—over 3.2 million dollars—finally materialized in my secure accounts, I didn’t buy a sports car. I went to work and sold huckleberry truffles.
But I couldn’t hide it from my children. I invited Declan and Sutton over for dinner and swore them to absolute, unbreakable secrecy. Sutton cried tears of joy, thrilled that I could finally rest. Declan was stunned, swearing he wouldn’t tell a soul.
I trusted my son. But I underestimated the insidious nature of the family I had left behind.
Two nights later, Declan was on the phone with his father. Vance was probing for information, asking how I was adjusting to the “struggle” of living in an apartment.
Declan, trying to defend my honor, slipped. “She’s doing great, Dad. She actually got incredibly lucky.”
Vance pressed. Like a bloodhound catching a scent, he wouldn’t let it go. And Declan, a twenty-year-old kid who still believed his parents could be civil, accidentally detonated the bomb. “She won the lottery, Dad. Like… five million.”
The following morning, as I was rolling up the security shutters at my boutique, my phone vibrated. The caller ID flashed Vance’s name.
“Clara,” his voice came through the speaker, sickeningly smooth. “So, I heard from Declan you hit the lottery.”
My blood ran cold. The hunt had officially begun.
