Chapter 7 - Claiming the Prize
The headquarters of the State Lottery Commission was a sleek, modern glass building downtown, far removed from the sterile grime of the police precinct.
Abigail walked through the automatic sliding doors carrying her worn leather purse. She wore her favorite Sunday coat, her hair neatly styled, her posture straight and unyielding. The receptionist at the front desk looked up, offering a polite corporate smile.
“Good morning, ma'am. How can I help you today?”
“I’m here to claim a winning ticket,” Abigail said calmly, reaching into her bag.
She pulled out the small, slightly crumpled piece of paper that had sat under the glass paperweight and inside the dictionary—the ticket worth twenty million dollars. She placed it gently on the counter.
The receptionist glanced down, scanned the barcode with a handheld laser reader, and suddenly froze. The scanner beeped a high-pitched, triumphant tone that echoed slightly across the quiet lobby.
The receptionist’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. She looked at the screen, then looked back up at Abigail, her hands trembling slightly as she pressed a silent alarm button under her desk to summon the high-security verification unit.
“Ma'am... Mrs. Riley?” the receptionist stammered, her voice dropping to a stunned whisper. “Do you realize what this is?”
“Yes,” Abigail replied with a serene smile. “I believe it’s the exact amount I need to start over.”
Within ten minutes, Abigail was escorted past the public lobby into a secure executive suite on the top floor, accompanied by Jonathan Vance, who had arrived precisely on schedule to act as her legal representative and trustee.
The Director of the State Lottery Commission personally shook her hand, offering champagne, which Abigail politely declined in favor of a simple glass of tap water.
“Twenty million dollars, Mrs. Riley,” the Director said, reviewing the final cryptographic authentication papers on his desk. “After federal and state taxes, your lump-sum payout will be safely deposited into the blind trust established by Vance & Associates in approximately forty-eight hours. How does it feel?”
Abigail looked out the panoramic glass window, watching the Chicago skyline stretch out beneath a break in the clouds where golden shafts of sunlight pierced the gray afternoon.
“It feels,” Abigail said softly, “like breathing fresh air for the first time in thirty-four years.”
The paperwork was signed, sealed, and verified.
As Abigail and Jonathan stepped out of the Lottery Commission building into the crisp air, Jonathan turned to her with an admiring grin.
“Well, Mrs. Riley. The trust is locked, the prosecution against your son and Viktor’s syndicate is airtight, and your financial security is guaranteed for generations. What’s the first thing you’re going to do?”
Abigail thought about it for a moment, her mind drifting back to the small house in Independencia, the kitchen faucet with the rhythmic drip, and the brass clock on the mantel.
“I’m going to fix that kitchen faucet,” Abigail said simply. “And then, I’m going to plant a garden of sunflowers right where the old driveway meets the lawn.”
Jonathan laughed, a warm, genuine sound. “Consider it done. My firm will handle any remaining property disputes or title cleanups regarding the 5nd Street duplex. You won't have to lift a finger.”
“Thank you, Jonathan,” Abigail said, shaking his hand firmly. “You’ve been more of a family to me in three days than my own blood was in three decades.”
“Just doing my job, Mrs. Riley. Enjoy your peace.”
Abigail hailed a cab and directed the driver back toward Independencia. As the car wound through the familiar neighborhood streets, she watched the passing storefronts and modest homes. Nothing outside had changed. The brick houses were still old, the sidewalks still cracked from winter frost.
But inside her, everything was entirely brand new.
When the cab pulled up in front of her small house, Abigail stepped out, paid the driver with a crisp twenty-dollar bill, and walked up the front steps.
She unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
The house was quiet. No phone buzzing with fake emergencies. No demands for money. No guilt-tripping text messages.
May you like
Just the steady, rhythmic tick-tock of the brass clock on the mantel.
Abigail walked into the kitchen, turned the handle of the leaky faucet until the dripping finally stopped, and smiled into the empty room.
