Chapter 5 - THE DOCTOR’S SECRETYates did not deny taking the photograph.
That surprised Lawson.
“Why?”
Yates looked exhausted.
“Insurance.”
“What?”
“Crosby threatened my daughter.”
Lawson went still.
Yates’s daughter attended college in Boston.
Crosby’s men had followed her.
Photographed her.
Sent Yates an address.
Demand:
Medical information.
Schedules.
Nothing initially violent.
Just enough.
Yates complied.
Then once compromised, more demands followed.
Clinical correspondence.
Prognosis.
Photographs.
He sabotaged the trial referral because Crosby wanted Lawson hopeless.
A hopeless Lawson made mistakes.
Weakness became strategic.
Clara stared at Yates through the interview glass.
She had wanted him to be merely arrogant.
This was worse.
But again:
Not simple.
A frightened father had endangered two children to protect his own.
Lawson entered the room.
Yates looked up.
“You would have done the same.”
Lawson stopped.
Years earlier, perhaps.
If Crosby held Jonah?
Blythe?
Would Lawson sacrifice strangers?
He hated not knowing.
“You should have told me.”
Yates laughed bitterly.
“Tell the mob boss his rival threatened my daughter?”
“Yes.”
“And then what?”
Lawson did not answer.
Yates smiled without humor.
“Exactly.”
Clara understood.
Lawson’s reputation had made honesty dangerous even inside his own house.
A system built on fear eventually prevented allies from asking for help.
Yates was arrested under a negotiated protection arrangement.
His daughter moved.
He lost his position.
But Lawson refused to order his death.
Prescott watched the police vehicle leave.
“This is getting weird.”
“What?”
“You letting people survive.”
Lawson almost smiled.
“Adapt.”
Meanwhile, the twins began preparation for the trial.
No guarantees.
Priya repeated that constantly.
Clara appreciated her.
Lawson hated it.
“What are the odds?”
“Not useful.”
“Everything has odds.”
“Children are not casino tables.”
Clara nearly applauded.
Treatment began.
Days passed.
The forty-eight-hour bargain expired quietly.
Clara packed.
Lawson saw the suitcase.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
He corrected himself.
“Why?”
“My agreement was forty-eight hours.”
“The children asked for you.”
“I know.”
“I need you.”
“That is not employment.”
Lawson stopped.
Clara continued:
“If you want me to stay, ask properly.”
He stared.
A man who commanded entire networks had apparently never learned to request anything.
“Clara.”
“Yes?”
“Would you stay?”
“For the treatment?”
“Yes.”
She considered.
“Temporary contract.”
“Fine.”
“Medical team retains authority.”
“Fine.”
“Regular rest hours.”
He looked offended.
“You have slept four hours in three days.”
“You also.”
“This isn't about me.”
“Then it is a condition.”
“Fine.”
“And I can leave.”
That hurt.
“Fine.”
She smiled.
“Then yes.”
Lawson exhaled.
He had faced armed attacks with less tension.
That night Blythe developed fever.
The treatment had barely begun.
Everything changed again.
Clara stayed beside her.
Lawson held her hand.
Priya worked.
Machines alarmed.
No miracle.
No narrative guarantee.
Only people doing the next right thing.
By morning the fever stabilized.
Lawson walked into the hall.
Clara followed.
His shoulders shook.
He turned away.
She placed one hand on his back.
“You are allowed.”
“What?”
“To be afraid.”
He closed his eyes.
Then finally let himself cry.
Not the king of Chicago.
Not the monster at the gate.
A father.
May you like
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Related Stories
