Chapter 3 - The Girl Who Took Notes
Cormack had always believed people revealed themselves most clearly when they thought no one important was listening.
Sloan Whitaker had spent six years becoming professionally invisible.
Now Cormack discovered invisibility had made her dangerous.
By late afternoon, Fitz had spread the thirty-eight documents across a conference table.
Names were connected with red lines.
Hospitals.
Charities.
Real-estate trusts.
Transportation companies.
One line kept appearing.
North Meridian Holdings.
Cormack recognized the name.
“They own three Riverline parcels.”
“Four,” Fitz corrected. “They bought another one last month.”
“With whose money?”
Fitz tapped a transfer.
“Marsh Foundation.”
Cormack’s expression hardened.
A charitable foundation had no reason to secretly finance industrial waterfront property.
Unless Riverline was never about property.
Cormack walked to the windows.
Snow erased the city below.
“Find where North Meridian sends its money.”
“We are.”
“Faster.”
Fitz leaned back.
“You’re angry.”
Cormack turned.
“Excellent observation.”
“No. I mean personally.”
Cormack said nothing.
Fitz nodded toward the coaster sitting beside the documents.
“You’ve kept that thing for almost a day.”
“She asked for help.”
“People ask you for help every week.”
“Not like that.”
Fitz studied him.
Cormack hated being studied.
He picked up his coat.
“Where are you going?”
“Halloway and Straoud.”
“To ask nicely?”
Cormack looked back.
“Of course.”
Preston Halloway’s receptionist turned pale when Cormack stepped from the elevator.
He had not called ahead.
Men like Preston preferred warnings.
Cormack preferred doors opening before people had time to prepare lies.
Preston appeared outside his office.
“Mr. Vale.”
“Preston.”
“I wasn’t expecting—”
“I know.”
Cormack walked past him.
The office smelled of coffee, leather, and expensive anxiety.
Cormack sat.
Preston remained standing.
“Where is Sloan Whitaker?”
Preston adjusted one cuff.
“I’m not sure. She failed to report this morning.”
“You advertised her position at 6:12 a.m.”
A flicker.
Tiny.
Enough.
“We require reliable staff.”
“Did you terminate her before or after she disappeared?”
Preston smiled thinly.
“You seem unusually interested in my secretary.”
Cormack did not correct the word.
My.
That was how men like Preston thought.
Employees.
Hospitals.
Patients.
Women.
Everything belonged to someone more powerful.
Cormack leaned back.
“Your secretary passed me a message asking for help.”
Preston’s color changed.
Only slightly.
“You must have misunderstood.”
“I don’t misunderstand writing.”
“I’m afraid Sloan has personal difficulties.”
“Such as?”
“A sick brother. Financial stress. Emotional strain.”
Cormack nodded.
“The usual explanation when a frightened woman becomes inconvenient.”
Preston’s jaw tightened.
“You have no standing here.”
Cormack stood.
Preston stepped back instinctively.
Cormack noticed.
“I have thirty-eight percent standing.”
Preston froze.
There it was.
Cormack smiled without warmth.
“Tell Gideon I know.”
“What exactly do you think you know?”
“I didn’t say I thought anything.”
Cormack walked toward the door.
“Cormack.”
He stopped.
Preston’s voice dropped.
“You built Riverline to become legitimate. Gideon knows that. Don’t destroy your future over an employee you met for five seconds.”
Cormack looked over his shoulder.
“That sentence told me more than you meant it to.”
Then he left.
Across town, Sloan was trying to fit Toby’s stolen key into the chain around her ankle.
It did not work.
“Try the door,” Toby whispered.
“The door locks from outside.”
“Maybe there’s something else.”
Sloan examined the key.
Small.
Flat.
A number engraved into the metal.
Not a room key.
A locker.
Or cabinet.
She slid it beneath her dress and listened.
Silence beyond the door.
Toby sat against the wall, breathing too quickly.
Sloan turned.
“You okay?”
“Fantastic.”
“Toby.”
His smile disappeared.
“My chest feels weird.”
Fear climbed her spine.
“How weird?”
“Like somebody put a belt around it.”
She knelt.
“Look at me.”
“I am.”
“Slow breath.”
He tried.
Failed.
Sloan pressed two fingers to his wrist.
Too fast.
She needed his medication.
She needed a doctor.
She needed out.
Toby watched her face.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Your lawyer face.”
“I don’t have a lawyer face.”
“Yes, you do. Your eyebrows go up and you start pretending everything is manageable.”
Despite everything, Sloan almost laughed.
“You’re sixteen. When did you become annoying?”
“Genetics.”
Her eyes burned.
Their mother had used that joke.
Toby noticed.
“Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re terrible at lying.”
“I literally lie for a living.”
“No. You take minutes.”
“Same industry.”
He smiled.
Then winced.
Sloan gripped his hand.
Footsteps.
She stood.
The door opened.
This time Royce Nadau entered alone.
He carried a bottle of water and medication.
Sloan watched every movement.
“Give me that.”
Royce looked at her.
“He needs it.”
“I know.”
“Then give it to him.”
Royce crossed the room.
He placed the pills into Sloan’s hand.
She checked them carefully.
Correct medication.
Correct dose.
She helped Toby swallow.
Royce turned to leave.
“Why are you doing this?” Sloan asked.
He stopped.
“Doing what?”
“Working for Marsh.”
No answer.
“You sat at dinner for two hours and never ate.”
Royce looked back.
“You notice a lot.”
“It’s my job.”
“Your job is typing.”
“No.”
Sloan stood straighter.
“My job is listening while men underestimate me.”
Something changed in his face.
Royce looked toward Toby.
Then back at her.
“You should stop asking questions.”
“Why?”
“Because questions are why you’re here.”
Before Sloan could respond, he left.
But when the door closed, she noticed something.
A folded piece of paper on the floor.
Dropped exactly where Royce had been standing.
Sloan picked it up.
One sentence.
LOCKER 314. UNION STATION. YOUR BROTHER’S FILE.
Toby stared.
“Was that an accident?”
“No.”
“Do you trust him?”
Sloan looked at the locked door.
“No.”
Then she folded the note.
“But I believe he wants us to find something.”
That evening, Fitz received an anonymous text.
No sender.
One photograph.
A locker key.
Under it:
Union Station.
Cormack stared at the image.
Fitz looked at him.
“Trap?”
“Probably.”
“We going?”
Cormack reached for his coat.
“Definitely.”
Forty minutes later, they stood inside Chicago Union Station while commuters hurried beneath the great arched ceiling.
Locker 314 was in a quiet corridor near baggage storage.
Cormack inserted a duplicated key.
The door opened.
Inside sat a medical file.
TOBIAS WHITAKER.
Under it was another folder.
Cormack opened it.
Photographs.
Dozens.
Patients transferred from Mercy Northside.
Dates.
Destinations.
Signatures.
Several of those patients were dead.
Others had vanished.
Fitz swore under his breath.
Cormack reached the final photograph.
Sloan.
Taken that morning.
She was standing in a concrete room beside Toby.
Alive.
A timestamp was printed below.
10:43 A.M.
On the back someone had written:
CALUMET. 9 P.M.
Cormack checked the station clock.
8:16.
Fitz looked at him.
“This is absolutely a trap.”
Cormack closed the folder.
“Yes.”
“You still want to go?”
May you like
Cormack’s eyes moved to Sloan’s photograph.
“More than before.”
