Chapter 14: The Shark
692 words
The address on the crumpled newspaper led to a brick building sandwiched between a bail bondsman and a liquor store. No glass skyscrapers. No marble floors. Just a flickering fluorescent light above the door that buzzed like a dying fly.
Sarah hesitated holding the handle. She smoothed her stained maternity tunic, acutely aware of the mud splattered on her hem and the oversized sneakers a shelter volunteer had scrounged for her. She looked like a beggar. She felt like a ghost.
She pushed the door open. The office smelled of stale coffee, old dust, and aggressive cologne. Piles of manila folders formed wobbly towers on every surface, threatening to topple. Behind a desk that looked like it had been salvaged from a dumpster fire, a man was shouting into a phone receiver clamped between his shoulder and ear.
Marcus Wolf. He looked less like a lawyer and more like a bouncer who’d stolen a suit. His tie was loose, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal jagged scars on his forearms, and his eyes were bloodshot.
He slammed the phone down, the plastic cracking against the base, and glared at her.
"We're closed," he barked, grabbing a half-eaten sandwich from atop a stack of depositions. "Unless you have a check with at least three zeros, turn around."
Sarah didn't move. She couldn't. Hunger clawed at her stomach, but desperation anchored her feet. "I don't have money," she whispered, her voice rasping from dehydration. "I have a target."
"Everyone has a target, sweetheart. Most of them are boring." He took a bite of the sandwich, dismissing her entirely. "Try legal aid downtown. They love sob stories."
"I don't have a sob story," Sarah said, her hands trembling as she placed them on her stomach. The baby shifted, a heavy reminder of the clock ticking down. "I have Julian Blackwood."
Marcus froze. The chewing stopped.
He slowly lowered the sandwich, his eyes narrowing. They were dark, predatory eyes. "You're the ex," he said flatly. "The one he traded in for the newer model. I read the divorce filing. 'Mental instability,' right?"
He laughed, a harsh, dry sound. "You want me to fight a prenup against Blackwood Pharmaceutics' army of sharks? I'm good, lady. I like my license where it is."
"He didn't just leave me," Sarah stepped forward, the shame burning her cheeks but her anger burning hotter. "He left because of the baby. He called him a liability."
"Rich guys hate liabilities. Go away."
"He said the baby was defective!" Sarah shouted, her voice cracking. Tears stung her eyes, hot and humiliating. "My son has Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome. He needs surgeries I can't afford because Julian cancelled my insurance!"
Marcus dropped the sandwich. It hit the desk with a wet thud.
He stood up, ignoring the mess, and walked around the desk. He leaned against the front, crossing his arms. He looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time. Not at her dirty clothes, but at the fire in her eyes.
"Say that again," he commanded. His voice had dropped an octave. It wasn't dismissive anymore. It was lethal.
"He... he cancelled the insurance," Sarah stammered, shrinking back under his gaze.
"No. The diagnosis. Say the specific condition again."
"Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome. The doctors said it's rare. Just bad genetic luck."
Marcus’s face twisted into a terrifying grin. It wasn't a smile of happiness; it was the smile of a shark scenting blood in the water.
"It's not bad luck," Marcus said softly. "And it's sure as hell not genetic."
He turned and ripped open a rusty filing cabinet, pulling out a thick, dusty binder. He slammed it open on the desk, pointing to a complex chemical diagram.
"Blackwood's new diet pill. The 'miracle cure' I've been trying to pin a toxic tort on for two years." He looked up at Sarah, his eyes blazing with a terrifying intensity. "That heart condition is the primary side effect in the animal trials he buried. He didn't leave you because he’s a jerk, Sarah. He left you because your baby is living evidence of corporate homicide."
End of Chapter 14
