Part 2He Threw Me a Centurion Card While I Held My Father's Ashes

I re-photographed the notice. My hands were trembling, the image slightly blurred. I took another one. Every second was a hammer blow against my father’s life.

I submitted the request again.

Five minutes later.

REJECTED.

Reason for Rejection: Requested amount is excessive. Must supplement with detailed itemized breakdown of costs, accurate to the exact price of each medication.

I felt a surge of hysterical madness. The surgery hadn't even started; the doctors were fighting to stabilize him. How was I supposed to get an itemized breakdown accurate to the milligram?

I messaged Cassidy on her private line.

“Please, I beg you. Approve it first. It’s life-or-death money!”

“I’ll send the breakdown later. Cassidy, this is a human life!”

She sent back a cute, animated bunny emoji.

“Sister, I want to help, but I can’t. Financial policy is financial policy. You used to be so lax with money. Marcus is trying to help you, you know. He said we have to teach you some discipline.”

I sank to my knees outside the operating room doors, the phone still clutched in my hand. I felt like a stray mutt whose spine had been pulled out.

I texted Marcus. I sent him voice notes.

“Marcus, I’m begging you.”

“Just approve the money, and I’ll do anything you say. I’ll never fight with you again. I won't be jealous of Cassidy. Please, save my father.”

Half an hour later.

Marcus finally sent a short voice note. The background was loud and boisterous—music, laughter. His voice was slurred with an impatient annoyance.

“Do what Cassidy says. Don’t bother me.”

At that exact moment.

The light above the O.R. door went out.

The surgeon walked out, pulled down his mask, and shook his head with profound regret.

“I’m sorry. If the payment had gone through even ten minutes earlier, we could have administered the clotting agent…”

I didn't hear the rest. The world went eerily quiet.

The man who had raised me, the man who had worked two jobs and sifted through trash to pay for my physics tuition, the only family I had left—he was dead.

Killed by a piece of paper that wasn’t in the “correct format.”

The body grew cold.

My love for Marcus Cole chilled along with it.

For the last three days.

I handled the funeral. Cremation. The scattering of ashes in his favorite park.

I didn’t tell Marcus. There was no need.

He was so afraid I would cheat him out of money. Now, I would never ask him for a single cent again.

I looked at the 'charitable' text message he'd sent moments ago. A tiny, cold smile touched my lips.

He thought I was angling for attention again. He had no idea this was the final courtesy I was offering him.

A red notification popped up from social media. It was Cassidy. The photo was a shot of an exclusive sushi bar, and a man’s hand wearing the limited-edition Patek Philippe watch I had once planned to save up and buy Marcus for his birthday.

The caption: “Thanks to the Boss for improving my dining experience. Some people just keep reaching for handouts, so distracting.”

I tapped the ‘like’ button.

It was the first and last time I would ever endorse Cassidy Shaw.

The phone rang immediately. Marcus. He must have seen the ‘like’ and thought I was being passive-aggressive.

I didn’t answer.

He texted.

“Ellie, who are you being sarcastic to? Don’t let people misunderstand Cassidy. She was only doing her job.”

“Un-like that post immediately, or I’ll shut down your primary credit line.”

Doing her job?

Doing her job murdering my father?

I laughed, a dry, rasping sound.

I clicked back to the post, and under Cassidy’s arrogant caption, I typed a comment:

“Cassidy, the secretary who got ahead by holding up the Boss’s wife’s emergency medical payment until her father died. That’s some smart career climbing. Enjoy your blood-money apartment. You and the Boss are a match made in hell. Lock it up, you two deserve each other.”

Post.

Block.

Power off.

The world was finally, blessedly quiet.