Chapter 2 - THE NUMBER SHE WOULDN’T SAY
“How much does it cost to keep your sister alive?”
Adrian Mercer asked the question as if there had to be a number.
A number could be paid.
A number could be handled.
A number belonged to the kind of world he understood.
I gathered the fallen papers from the hospital floor.
“You don’t need to know.”
His eyes dropped to the red FINAL NOTICE in my hand.
“That usually means somebody needs to know.”
“I’m not asking you for money.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You were about to offer it.”
Adrian said nothing.
Which meant I was right.
I shoved the donor paperwork into my bag.
The plastic sandwich bag caught on the zipper.
Half of Ethan’s turkey sandwich slid onto the chair between us.
Adrian stared at it.
“Why do you have my son’s dinner?”
My face burned.
“He didn’t finish it.”
“We have food at the house.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you carrying it around at three in the morning?”
I hated the answer.
Not because it was shameful.
Because I had spent months making sure nobody had to hear it.
“Because it’s tomorrow’s lunch.”
Something in Adrian’s face changed.
He looked down at my sneakers.
The left sole had separated slightly at the toe.
I had glued it twice.
Suddenly I wished the floor would open beneath me.
“How long?” he asked.
“How long what?”
“How long have you been skipping meals?”
“I eat.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
I zipped my bag shut.
“Mr. Mercer, Lily is stable. Ethan needs me at seven. I should go home, shower, and—”
“You’re not working tomorrow.”
“I need the hours.”
“You’re salaried.”
“I need the job.”
“You still have the job.”
“That is easy for you to say.”
His expression hardened.
“What does that mean?”
“It means wealthy people say things like ‘take the day’ because a day does not have a price.”
Adrian absorbed that without interrupting.
So I kept going.
“For me, a day is the train fare I don’t have to spend. It’s hospital parking if I’m here too late for the bus. It’s Lily’s prescriptions. It’s groceries. It’s the phone bill.”
My voice cracked.
“And if I donate, it’s weeks when I can’t work.”
Adrian looked at the papers sticking out of my bag.
“You’ve been planning surgery without telling anyone.”
“I have been planning to save my sister.”
“By putting yourself in a hospital bed.”
“She’s twenty-two.”
“So?”
“So she hasn’t even had a life yet.”
The words came out harder than I intended.
“She was supposed to finish school. She was supposed to complain about bad dates and spend money on stupid shoes and call me because she locked herself out of her apartment.”
I wiped at my face angrily.
“She is not supposed to know which arm has the better dialysis access.”
Adrian’s expression changed.
For once, there was no powerful answer waiting behind his eyes.
Just a father hearing someone talk about losing family.
He sat in the plastic chair across from me.
“How much is overdue?”
I shook my head.
“Claire.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if you pay it, then every time I look at you, I’ll know my sister is alive because my boss decided to be generous.”
“That sounds better than the alternative.”
“It doesn’t sound better to me.”
His jaw tightened.
I knew I was testing the patience of a man nobody tested.
But I was too tired to care.
“I work for you,” I said. “That does not mean you get to own every problem in my life.”
The words hung between us.
Adrian leaned back.
Then, unexpectedly, he nodded.
“Fair.”
I stared at him.
That was not the answer I expected.
He looked at the billing notice again.
“Then I won’t pay it.”
Relief and disappointment hit me at the same time.
I hated the disappointment most.
“But you’re not going to work tomorrow.”
“Mr. Mercer—”
“That is an employer making a scheduling decision.”
I almost laughed.
“You are impossible.”
“I have been told.”
A nurse opened the dialysis-room door.
“Claire?”
I stood.
“Lily’s awake.”
I hurried inside.
My sister looked tiny beneath the hospital blanket.
Lily had always been slim.
Now she looked like someone had erased part of her.
Her brown hair was pulled into a loose braid. Tape covered the access line in her arm.
She smiled when she saw me.
“You look terrible.”
I laughed despite myself.
“Thank you.”
Then she saw Adrian behind me.
Her smile disappeared.
Not slowly.
Instantly.
“Why is he here?”
Adrian stopped.
I looked between them.
“You know who he is?”
Everybody knew who Adrian was, but Lily’s face showed something else.
Recognition.
Fear.
“Lily?”
She looked at my boss.
“Mercer.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Yes.”
She pulled the blanket higher.
“You still own Pier Nine?”
The room went quiet.
Adrian looked at me.
Then back at her.
“Yes.”
I frowned.
“What is Pier Nine?”
Neither answered.
Lily stared at her hands.
Adrian stepped closer to the bed.
“Why are you asking?”
She swallowed.
“I worked there.”
My stomach dropped.
“When?”
“Before I got sick.”
I stared at her.
“You told me you worked nights at a packaging company.”
“It was through a temp agency.”
“What does that have to do with Adrian?”
Lily closed her eyes.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“I didn’t tell you everything.”
She reached toward the small canvas bag beside her bed.
Her fingers were weak, so I opened it for her.
Inside were socks.
A phone charger.
Lip balm.
And an old orange plastic badge.
Lily handed it to Adrian.
The faded print was still readable.
MERCER FREIGHT SERVICES.
TEMPORARY ACCESS.
PIER 9 — NIGHT CREW.
Adrian turned it over.
Someone had written B-16 across the back in black marker.
His face changed.
“What?” I asked.
He did not answer.
Lily did.
“Bay Sixteen.”
Adrian looked at her.
“You were there that night?”
Lily nodded.
I felt cold.
“What night?”
Lily looked at me.
“The night they told us nothing happened.”
Adrian became completely still.
Lily’s fingers tightened around the hospital blanket.
“There was a shipment on the floor. Yellow dust everywhere.”
My heart started pounding.
“What kind of shipment?”
She looked at Adrian.
“I was sick two days later.”
Adrian stared at the orange badge in his hand.
Then he said something that made my stomach drop.
“There was never a chemical incident reported at Pier Nine.”
Lily gave him a tired, bitter smile.
“I know.”
She pointed at her dialysis machine.
May you like
“That was the problem.”
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