Aaron finds him by the window again. He doesn't lead with pity.
“Sir," Aaron says, tablet in hand. “You should sit."
“I'm fine standing." Marcus's voice is sanded down. “Say it."
Aaron reads clean. “Medical notes indicate Mrs. Hale declined curative surgery due to cost. She accepted palliative care only. Estimated survival if operated: months, not years."
Marcus laughs once. It's not a laugh. “She asked me for five hundred thousand. Do you know that?"
Aaron waits.
“She called," Marcus says, eyes on the glass. “I was in the office. 'I need five hundred thousand,' she said. Like ordering lunch." He huffs. “I told her she wasn't worth that much."
A beat. The window offers nothing back.
“She didn't mention cancer?" Aaron asks carefully.
“She said 'treatment,'" Marcus says. “People say
