Chapter 8 Katie
Katie
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the week pressing down again—the files, the endless emails, the look in Stephan Marek’s eyes when he told me to stay late.
Before I go downstairs, I kneel beside the bed. The floor is cold beneath my knees, grounding me in something real before the day begins.
“Please help me save my sister.”
The words are the same every morning, but today they stick in my throat.
Another prayer rises before I can stop it.
“And please help Stephan Marek with whatever ghosts are haunting him.”
I slip on a pair of gym shorts and an old T-shirt and head downstairs.
Mary’s curled up on the couch under a blanket, pale morning light spills across her face. HGTV hums softly in the background.
“What are you watching?” I ask, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead.
“House Hunters,” she murmurs, eyes still half-closed.
Mom glances over from the stove. “We’re having a rough morning,” she says gently,
She sets a plate in front of me—bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast glistening with butter.
The steam rises in a soft, savory cloud, the kind of smell that usually means safety.
It’s the scent of my childhood, of Saturday mornings before the world got complicated.
For the first time all week, my shoulders start to unclench.
But the relief doesn’t last. It curdles, heavy in my throat.
Mary’s only thirty. She should be out in the world—dating, having after-work drinks, complaining about her boss, not curled up on our mother’s couch like she’s a child.
Mom sits in the recliner next to us, with her own plate, the old chair creaking under her weight. “So,” she says, buttering a piece of toast, “how’s the new job, sweetheart? They keeping you busy?”
I force a smile. “Busy’s one word for it. I don’t think I’ve worked this hard since finals week.”
“You always did like to overdo it,” she says with a small laugh. “That partner of yours—what’s his name? Marek?—he must run a tight ship.”
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. “He does,” I manage. “Very tight.”
Mary lets out a quiet laugh that turns into a cough. “You sound like you’re scared of him.”
I’m not scared,” I say, the lie tasting like iron. “He’s just... intense. He expects a lot.”
Mom’s brow furrows. “As long as he’s not expecting too much. You’re only one person, Katie.”
“I can handle it.” I stab at my eggs, but my mind is back in that office, feeling the heat of his hand pinning mine to the desk. The memory feels like a secret sin, a dark smudge on the clean, morning light of this kitchen.
Mom reaches over and touches my hand. Her skin is warm and dry, the touch of someone who has spent her life holding things together. “You signed up to help your sister, not to lose yourself in the process.”
The words sting. I look at Mary, pale and fragile against the cushions, and then at Mom, whose eyes are too perceptive. They see the “good girl” who went to work. They don't see the woman who sat in the dark with a man who doesn't believe in God, feeling more alive than she ever did in a chapel.
“I’m not losing anything, Mom,” I say softly. I stab at my eggs a little too forcefully. “This is what I signed up for.”
Mary sits up and gives me a faint smile. “Don’t listen to her. Some people have to save the world, right?”
“Something like that,” I say, returning the smile, but my throat tightens around it.
After breakfast, I volunteer to take Mary to her chemotherapy appointment.
Mom hesitates, probably worried I’m too tired, but I need to do something useful.
The drive is quiet. The hum of the car and the soft buzz of the radio fill the space between us. Mary leans her head against the window, scarf wrapped neatly around her hairline.
“You can be honest with me. Mom’s not here. What’s it like working for a hotshot lawyer?”
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. “Demanding. He’s the kind of person who never leaves anything to chance.”
She turns her head, smiling faintly. “Sounds like someone I know.”
I laugh under my breath. “Maybe. Except he’s not doing this for family.”
Mary’s quiet for a beat, then reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to carry all of it, Katie.”
I nod, but I don’t answer. Because if I stop carrying it, I’m afraid everything will fall apart.
“I know,” I whisper faintly.
“But I want you to know, I’m grateful for what you’re doing. I know leaving the convent and going to law school must have been hard.”
Her words hit something raw in me. I left the convent for my sister, yes—but also for myself. Of course, I’d never tell anyone that.
“I’d do anything for you,” I say quietly.
“I know.” She squeezes my hand.
We pull into the hospital parking lot, the sun already sharp on the glass facade. Mary opens her door slowly, tugging her scarf into place.
“I’ll grab you a coffee and some trashy mags,” I say, trying for lightness.
She smiles. “Thanks, sis.”
The door shuts, and I watch her walk toward the entrance—small steps, shoulders squared like she’s bracing against the world.
I say a quick prayer and go to find a parking spot.
Before I even make it to the coffee shop, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, expecting a reminder from Mom or a pharmacy alert, but my chest tightens when I see the sender.
From: Stephan Marek Subject: Sunday Discovery Meeting
I will need you to come into the office tomorrow around noon. Lunch will be provided. —S.M.
That’s it. No ‘Hello Katie.’ No ‘Best, Stephan.’ Just a command wrapped in a lunch invitation.
My heart twists, a frantic, stuttering rhythm I don’t recognize. Tomorrow at noon. The office will be empty on a Sunday, and the atmosphere will still be thick with the residue of our Friday night.
I look back at the hospital doors where Mary just disappeared. I am doing this for her. But as I type a short, professional ‘I'll be there,’ I can't ignore the heat creeping up my neck.
I'm not just going back to work. I'm going back to him. My palms itch against the steering wheel. I curl my fingers tight, as if prayer could be muscle, not faith.
Law firms bury scandals fast, but not without casualties. Associates disappear. Partners resign. Families get dragged through headlines. I’ve seen the gossip threads; I know how this goes. Before I slip the phone back into my bag, I delete the email. Just in case.
I grab my sister an iced vanilla latte and a lavender one for myself, then scoop up a pile of tabloids from the display—bright covers, loud headlines, something to fill the silence while we wait.
When I reach the oncology unit, Mary’s already hooked up to the chemo machine. The steady drip is the only sound in the room. Her head rests against the sterile vinyl chair, her skin pale against the white light. She looks so small—a ghost of the woman she used to be.
I take the seat beside her, setting the drinks on the table between us. The ice clinks softly in her cup.
“Thank you,” she mouths, reaching for the straw with trembling fingers.
I flip through the tabloids, pretending to care about celebrity weddings and scandalous divorces. The paper crackles too loudly in the quiet room.
Mary closes her eyes, the color already draining from her face. I should pray, or read to her, or do something useful—but my mind keeps drifting back to the email.
I will need you to come into the office tomorrow around noon. Lunch will be provided.
It’s just work. That’s all it is.
But the words replay like a pulse beneath my skin, steady and impossible to ignore.
The hiss of the IV fills the silence. I glance at Mary—my reason, my anchor—and shame tightens in my throat.
He’s my boss. That’s all.
Still, I can’t stop imagining what it means that he chose me, again, when he could have asked anyone else.
I sip my lavender latte, the sweetness catching in my throat, and stare at the clock until the minutes stop making sense.
After a while, a familiar voice breaks through the soft hum of machines.
“Katie,” says Dr. Jacobs, smiling as he approaches. “Haven’t seen you here in a while. Usually, your mother keeps Mary company.”
“I’ve got a new job,” I say, glancing at my sister, who’s already drifted into a light sleep.
He nods, flipping through her chart. “I see that. We have a new release for you to sign, actually. Do you have a moment to talk about your sister’s care?”
My eyes flick to Mary, then back to him. “Of course.”
“Let’s step into my office.”
I touch Mary’s hand gently, whispering, “I’ll be right back.”
Dr. Jacobs leads me down the hall into his office—a small, windowless space that smells faintly of antiseptic and coffee. He gestures for me to sit. The vinyl chair sighs under my weight.
He settles behind his desk, flipping through Mary’s chart with careful hands. “Your sister’s responding, but not as well as we’d hoped,” he says. “Her current regimen is keeping things stable, but only just.”
A familiar heaviness settles in my chest. “What are our options?”
He hesitates—always a bad sign. “There’s a new trial opening next quarter. A targeted therapy that’s shown strong results for her type of leukemia.”
My pulse quickens. “What company?”
He looks up from the chart. “Halcyon Pharmaceuticals.”
The air thins, squeezing the breath from my lungs. Halcyon. The name echoes in my head, stripped of the legal jargon and the litigation files.
To Stephan, they are a client to be defended. To me, they were just a paycheck. Now, they’re a god. A cruel, corporate deity that holds my sister’s life in its hands. And I have a legitimate conflict of interest in the Halcyon case. But no one needs to know that.
“It’s early-stage,” he continues. “Not widely available yet, but we can try to get her enrolled. The cost out of pocket would be… substantial, if the trial doesn’t cover it.”
I stare at the floor, my throat dry. “How substantial?”
He gives a small, apologetic sigh. “Upwards of four hundred thousand for the full cycle.”
The number doesn’t even sound real.
“Think about it,” he says gently. “I’ll have my nurse send you the paperwork.”
I nod, but I can barely hear him over the blood rushing in my ears.
When I step back into the hallway, the hum of machines feels louder than before.
Mary’s still sleeping, her hand limp under the blanket.
Halcyon—the company I’m defending. The company that might be the only thing that can save her.
The parking lot is nearly empty when I finally step outside. Warm air rises off the asphalt—Chicago pretending it’s summer.
I sit in the driver’s seat of the Toyota for a long time, the heat of the afternoon sun baking the dashboard. My hands tremble against the steering wheel—not with fear, but with the sheer, crushing weight of the irony.
“Are you okay?” Mary asks, her voice is weak and cracked. Chemotherapy is always hard on her.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I try to shake off the weight of everything pressing down on me. Four hundred thousand dollars for Mary’s treatment. Halcyon. Stephan.
“Okay.” She eyes me suspiciously. “But we’ve been sitting here for like three minutes.”
I shake my head. “Sorry, just tired.” The engine of the old Toyota roars as I back out of the parking space.
“Alright,” Mary says, but her tone tells me she’s not convinced.
Nothing about this feels safe anymore.
The world outside the windshield blurs—light, heat, motion. I blink hard and force the car into gear.
As I pull out of the lot, the hospital fading in my rearview mirror, the truth presses in on me from all sides. Tomorrow at noon I’ll have lunch with the man who controls the defense of the company that owns the cure.
I’m not just an associate anymore.
I’m a hostage to the outcome.
I’m in too deep.