Chapter 2 - Seven Months of Lies
At eight the next morning, Cordelia woke to voices downstairs.
She walked into the kitchen and stopped.
Three men in dark suits stood near the island.
Atticus was pouring coffee.
Cordelia stared.
“What is this?”
Atticus looked up.
“Morning.”
“Why are there armed men in my kitchen?”
“They're leaving.”
One of them, Marcus Vale, frowned.
“We haven't finished.”
Atticus handed him a folder.
“Yes, we have.”
Marcus lowered his voice.
“Milwaukee won't wait.”
“Then Milwaukee can learn patience.”
“People are already asking questions.”
Atticus's eyes hardened.
“Let them.”
Cordelia folded her arms.
“Everyone out.”
The men looked at Atticus.
Atticus nodded.
They immediately left.
Cordelia waited until the front door closed.
“You cannot dismantle your entire life because I'm sick.”
“I can do whatever I want.”
“That's exactly the problem.”
Atticus set down his coffee.
“What does that mean?”
“You don't know how to help without taking control.”
“I'm trying to keep you alive.”
“You've known for six hours.”
“And you've known for seven months.”
“Which means maybe I know something you don't.”
Atticus approached.
“Then tell me.”
She hesitated.
“Tell me everything.”
Cordelia finally sat.
“The treatments started five months ago.”
“Who drives you?”
“I drive myself.”
His expression darkened.
“You drive yourself home after chemotherapy?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“A nurse drove me twice.”
“Why wasn't there a driver?”
“Because your drivers report to you.”
Atticus turned away.
He placed both hands on the counter.
“How did I miss this?”
Cordelia didn't answer.
That silence was answer enough.
He had missed it because he was rarely looking.
Atticus turned back.
“Who knows?”
“My oncologist. Nurses. My sister.”
“Your sister knew?”
“Yes.”
“And I didn't.”
“She was there.”
Another hit.
He nodded slowly.
“When's your next appointment?”
“Monday.”
“I'm coming.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Atticus—”
“I'm coming.”
Cordelia stood.
“Do you hear yourself?”
“Yes.”
“No, you don't. You think being louder means you're helping.”
He stared at her.
“What do you want me to do?”
The question surprised them both.
Cordelia's anger faded slightly.
“What?”
“Tell me.”
Atticus spread his hands.
“No orders. No security teams. No money. Tell me what you need.”
She looked at him for several seconds.
“Sit with me.”
Atticus frowned.
“That's it?”
“For ten minutes.”
He pulled out a chair.
Cordelia almost smiled.
“No phone.”
He removed it.
Placed it face down.
“No gun.”
He hesitated.
“Atticus.”
He removed the Glock and locked it in a kitchen safe.
Then sat.
Cordelia sat opposite him.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Eventually Atticus asked:
“Are you scared?”
Cordelia looked down.
“Yes.”
“So am I.”
She looked up sharply.
Atticus Graham never admitted fear.
He reached across the table.
This time, she allowed him to take her hand.
Then his phone began vibrating.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Atticus ignored it.
On the fourth vibration, Cordelia looked toward it.
“You should answer.”
“No.”
“It might be important.”
“So are you.”
The phone stopped.
Then immediately began ringing again.
Atticus glanced at the screen.
His expression changed.
Cordelia noticed.
“Who?”
“Marcus.”
“Answer.”
Atticus did.
“What?”
Marcus spoke quickly.
Atticus's eyes narrowed.
“When?”
A pause.
“Are you sure?”
Another pause.
Atticus looked toward Cordelia.
“Send me everything.”
He hung up.
“What happened?”
“Someone accessed my private financial network last night.”
Cordelia frowned.
“Who?”
“We don't know.”
“Did they steal something?”
“No.”
Atticus's expression became colder.
“They searched your name.”
Cordelia went still.
“My name?”
May you like
“And your medical records.”
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