Marcus Kane - The Street Rat husband : An Hidden God

Chapter 7: Notice of termination

Victor turned off the lights in his study at ten at night.

Alexander was still sitting on the sofa, tapping the edge of the cast on his arm with his healthy fingers.

"We need something that leaves her no choice," said Alexander. "Not just pressure. Something that forces her to the worst possible point."

Victor did not answer immediately. He stood by the window, looking at the city lights below.

"There is a way," he said finally.

Alexander looked up. "What way?"

Victor turned his back on him, walking toward the door. "Let me handle it."

"Father, I want to know—"

"You don't need to know now." Victor took his jacket from the hanger. His voice was light, like someone discussing a breakfast schedule. "Go to sleep, Alexander. Tomorrow you will know."

He left without waiting for an answer.

Alexander stared at the closed door.

"What exactly is Father planning?"

---

The package arrived at seven forty in the morning.

Diane opened the door.

She had just come down from her room, her hair uncombed, wearing a gray nightgown whose color had already faded. The courier stood at the doorway with a thick white envelope.

He handed it over, asked for a signature, and left.

The Beaumont Medical Centre logo was printed in the top left corner in gold ink.

Diane closed the door.

She stood in the hallway for a moment, the envelope in her hand. Feeling it. Its weight did not match its size.

She carried it to the kitchen, sat on the chair closest to the door, and opened it carefully. Her fingers were not in a hurry.

Letters from hospitals were never pleasant.

At least for that woman.

Notice of Termination of Medical Financing Facilities. Effective 72 hours from the date this letter is issued, all treatment schemes under the name Edwin Sterling will be completely terminated. Policy changes by the guarantor...

Diane's eyes began moving from line to line.

One line.

Two lines.

She stopped in the middle of the page.

The envelope slipped from her hand to the floor without a sound.

Diane bent forward, both her palms covering her mouth, and the sound that came out of her throat was not merely sobbing or crying.

A feeling that had been suppressed for years, in a place never shown to anyone.

Bursting out because of a sheet of paper with strands of ink upon it.

Her shoulders trembled. Her back rose and fell.

And she cried, sobbing, alone in a kitchen just beginning to be lit by the morning sun.

Quinn came down as soon as she heard the commotion.

She stood at the kitchen doorway and saw her mother bent over in the chair, the letter on the floor, her shoulders shaking.

"Mom."

Diane did not look up.

Quinn stepped in. Knelt down, picked up the letter from the floor with two fingers, and began reading it quickly.

Behind her, Marcus's footsteps were heard on the stairs. Slow. He stopped at the kitchen doorway, saw the situation, and said nothing.

The wheels of Edwin's chair creaked from the hallway. He pushed himself out of the room, stopping in front of his bedroom door like someone who wanted to know but was not yet ready to know.

"What is it?" Edwin asked.

Quinn folded the letter. Unfolded it again. Folded it again. Stood up.

"Dad."

She handed the letter to Edwin.

Edwin took it with both hands. His hands were already trembling from the first line. When he reached the end, his eyes closed.

"Seventy-two hours."

His voice was barely audible.

Diane lifted her face.

Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks red, and the exhaustion on her face was not from one night—years, without end.

"Beaumont is the only hospital that can handle your father's condition," Diane said. Her voice broke. "If they terminate the contract, we can't pay for it ourselves. We don't have—" She stopped. Swallowed.

"This is all my fault." Edwin placed the letter on his lap. "If I weren't sick. If I could work. If I hadn't fallen at the worst possible time—"

"Edwin." Diane's voice cut like scissors.

Silence.

Diane stood. Took the letter from her husband's hands with a motion that was not rough but not gentle either. She folded it, placed it on the table, and turned her back on both of them.

"How many times have you said sorry?" Her voice was low. "How many times has that apology of yours come out, Edwin? And every time, we are still at the same point. Worse, even."

"Diane, I know—"

"You don't know anything." She still did not turn around. "If you knew, you wouldn't have stayed silent when Victor took everything our daughter had built. If you knew, sorry would not be the only thing you have."

Edwin opened his mouth. Closed it. Stared at his hands on his lap.

Quinn pulled a chair and sat down.

Her movement was ordinary. Slow. Like someone who had just decided to have breakfast.

Her hands folded on the table. Her eyes stared at a single point on the wooden surface. Not at her mother. Not at her father.

Behind her left temple, pain throbbed slowly and constantly, like a small alarm that could not be turned off.

One of her hands moved under the table. Gripping the fabric of her pants at her knee.

Releasing it.

Gripping it again.

Her lips pressed inward, held between her upper and lower teeth. Her jaw tightened until the muscle showed faintly at the side of her face. Her eyes reddened slightly at the corners.

"I'm going upstairs first," Quinn said, closing her eyes for a moment.

Then she stood, emptied her face until only a normal expression remained, and walked to the stairs.

Marcus waited thirty seconds before following her.

Quinn's bedroom door was not locked. He knocked twice, then entered.

Quinn sat on the edge of the bed. Back straight. Hands on her knees. So calm that it was as if nothing in the world could disturb her.

Marcus pulled a chair and sat in front of her.

"Seventy-two hours," Quinn said.

"Yes."

"This is not a coincidence." She raised her eyes. "Victor. It must be him."

"Very likely."

"Not very likely. Certain." Quinn stood, walked to the window. Outside, the sky was still gray from the night. "He won't let me go no matter what unless I agree to go back."

Marcus did not answer. He watched the woman in silence. Letting his wife pour out whatever was in her head.

"I've checked all the options." Quinn turned the ring on her finger, once, twice, without looking at it. "But there is no instant way. Seventy-two hours is the same as a blink. What can I do? Dad... I can't let—"

Marcus looked at her. "Let me handle it."

Silence.

"How?" Quinn asked.

"I can't explain right now."

"Marcus—"

"Trust me." His voice was flat as usual. Yet there was no gap in it either. As if he were saying something certain and absolute. "That's what I'm asking from you for now."