So here’s a new chapter. Let me know what you think. 😁
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Huge thanks to my BR Socomama and 90stvfangirl. ❤️
TOCChapter seventyThe phone rings.
I stop.
“Lane.”
“Lois. I just got off the phone with Henderson. The MPD found people in the basement. Over twenty individuals.”
I breathe in sharply. Clark stops beside me.
“How long?”
“They didn’t say.” Perry’s voice is careful. “They’re in poor health. Some of them more than others. The hospital is not releasing names. The police are trying to find next of kin first.”
I press my lips together. More than twenty people, and somewhere there are families who don’t even know where they are. I glance at Clark. His eyes are on the file on the table. There's something in the set of his mouth that makes me think of all the people who must be wondering what happened to someone they love.
He looks like he wants to do something, though there’s nothing we can do now.
“Your story ran an hour ago. Stagg’s made a public statement before the ink was dry.” A pause. “It’s what you’d expect: denial and promising to cooperate with the police. He’s also named a culprit from middle management.”
“Of course he has.”
“He held a press conference, and announced a fund to cover medical care, temporary housing, and ‘every legitimate need’ of the survivors.”
“Every legitimate need,” I repeat. “Translation: he gets to decide who counts.”
“Exactly. He’s also ordered an internal review run by lawyers who report to Stagg Industries. That’s not accountability. It’s a firewall with a press release.”
I press my fingers against the receiver. “He’s making himself the rescuer.”
“If he pays the bills, he can point to every receipt and claim he made things right. Meanwhile, the people who were locked in that building may be too frightened or dependent on his money to speak up.”
“The survivors. When can I talk to them?”
“All of them are currently being treated at the hospital. Right now, only police and medical staff have access.”
“But?” I can hear that there’s more.
“That’s why I’m calling.” Perry’s voice shifts into editor mode. “Henderson says the doctors may clear some survivors for interviews over the weekend. Anyone who agrees can speak to the Planet anonymously. No identifying details, and we’ll put out a separate call for next of kin. Anyone who recognizes someone goes through the police, not us.”
“Good. When can I go?”
“You get three hours with everyone willing to talk as soon as they are cleared. You go alone. No pressure, no crowding. You broke the story, Lois, but these people have been through a lot.”
“Understood.” I glance at Clark, and take his hand. “Perry, there’s something else I wanted to discuss. Would you like to have dinner with us tonight?”
“I’ll come by, when the Planet is put to bed. Gotta go now. Bye.”
“Bye.”
The click in my ear is loud.
I yawn and stretch after replacing the receiver.
Clark looks at me and leads me to the couch. “Sit down while I whip up something to eat for us.”
He returns to the kitchen and I close my eyes for a moment.
***
When I open them again, there’s a blanket covering me and Clark stands in front of the couch with two steaming bowls in his hands.
“Here’s some soup, do you want to eat at the table or do you want to stay here?”
“Let’s eat on the couch.” I sit up to make room for him. “How long did I sleep?” I take one bowl from him after he sits down beside me.
“Not long, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“I didn’t even realize that I was tired.”
He smiles and sinks back against the cushions. “Then stay put. I’ll do the rest.”
I lean against him, the soup warming my hands beneath the blanket.
We eat slowly. Clark keeps his bowl balanced on one knee, his free hand resting lightly against my shoulder, and every few minutes he glances down to make sure I am actually eating.
“This is good,” I say after a while.
“It’s only soup.”
“It’s good soup.”
He looks pleased with that.
When the bowls are empty, I set mine on the coffee table.
Then my stomach growls again.
Clark looks down at me. “Still hungry?”
I shrug.
“We should go out for groceries then, we don’t want you and your sister to starve over the weekend.”
“Now?”
“Why not?” he asks. “I could go without you, if you’re too tired.”
“No. If I let you go alone, you’ll probably just buy vegetables and nuts. Someone needs to put the right things in your cart.”
He takes the empty bowls to the kitchen, and I reluctantly sit up, folding the blanket over the arm of the couch.
***
Clark takes the basket and heads for the produce section. He chooses several types of fruit, examining each one before placing it carefully inside. Then come the vegetables.
In the next aisle, I get an urgent craving.
“Pickles.” I add a jar to the basket. “The really sour ones.”
“Pickles?”
“I used to hate pickles.” I reach for a second jar. “Things change.”
He makes room beside the yogurt.
“And those crackers.” I point toward the shelf. “No, the other ones. The salty ones.”
He adds them without comment.
By the cereal aisle, I have acquired cheese puffs, a box of sugary cereal, chocolate-covered biscuits, and a family-size bag of chocolate. Clark places granola, oatmeal, and a box of bran flakes into the basket beside them.
“That’s not a pregnancy craving,” I tell him.
“It’s breakfast.”
“It looks like cardboard.”
“It has fiber.”
“So does the box.”
His mouth twitches. He adds the cereal anyway.
Then I see the peanut butter. An idea arrives fully formed: peanut butter on a pickle, sprinkled with crushed cereal. It sounds like the single best thing I have ever considered eating, and I have to stop myself from opening the jar in the store.
He looks at me with a half smile and adds another bag of pecans to the basket.
We spend much longer in the store than either of us intended. Clark reads labels, checks dates, and makes sure we have enough food for the weekend. I keep discovering urgent requirements in every aisle, even food I have never liked in my life.
By the register, the basket looks less like a grocery run and more like we’re stocking for winter. The cashier divides everything into several bags. Clark pays without a word, without a single raised eyebrow, and carries all of them himself.
“You’re not going to say anything?” I ask once we’re back on the sidewalk.
“About what?”
“About choosing all that healthy food, only to watch me bury it under chocolate and ice cream?”
He shifts the bags to one arm and takes my hand with the other.
“You’re pregnant,” he says. “I’m making sure you have what you need. If you want ice cream and chocolate, we'll have ice cream and chocolate.”
“And the bran flakes?”
“Those are the healthy options I’m going to sneak onto your plate when you’re not watching.”
“Then I’ll make sure to keep an eye on you.”
“I have no objection to that.”
***
Back home, Clark puts away the groceries. “I thought we could make curry for dinner tonight.” He places the sweet potatoes onto the cutting board.
“That sounds good.”
He glances at me. “You could help.”
“If you want me to.”
“You can chop things.”
While he starts preparing what he needs for the curry, he sets out onions, garlic, ginger, and the vegetables we bought, cutting and arranging them.
As the curry begins to heat, I watch him.
“Show me something.”
He looks at me.
“In the kitchen. Something simple.”
That earns me a small smile. “Come here.”
He pulls the mixing bowl from the cabinet, the big one, and sets it on the counter between us. Then the oats, the bag of pecans, and an apple from the bowl by the window.
“Oatmeal cookies,” he tells me. “Simple, and healthy enough to count as a snack.”
He hands me the apple and a small knife. “Peel this first. Try to keep as much of the apple as possible.”
I start peeling, and he stands close beside me, one hand resting lightly on the counter.
“The curry can simmer while we make these.”
We break the pecans into pieces by hand rather than chopping them. He demonstrates, and I do the same, the nuts crumbling between my fingers. There’s something satisfying about it, the clean snap, the irregular pieces falling into the bowl.
He measures the oats by eye, then adds an egg.
“That’s not a measurement.”
“It works every time.”
“That’s what people say before it doesn’t.”
His mouth twitches as he hands me the spoon. I stir until the mixture thickens, the apple pieces catching between the oats and pecans.
My back begins to ache before the dough is ready. Clark takes the spoon from me without comment and finishes mixing while I lean against the counter.
“Now make a cookie,” he says, handing me the spoonful of dough.
I drop it onto the baking sheet. It spreads into a lopsided mound.
I give him a look and make the next one. It’s marginally better. By the time we finish, the sheet is covered in uneven rounds, some larger than others, none of them remotely identical.
Clark slides the cookies into the oven and sets the timer.
Then he moves back to the curry. The kitchen fills with the scent of onions softening in oil and the warm spices he adds one after another. I hand him things when he asks, staying close enough that our shoulders brush whenever he reaches past me.
“Now we wait until the cookies are done.” His eyes shift toward the new couch.
I follow his gaze. “Then we have time to cuddle, right?”
His smile comes slowly. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
He holds out his hand. I take it and settle beside him, tucking myself against his side beneath his chin. His arm closes around my shoulders.
“Comfortable?” he asks.
“Very.”
He presses a kiss to the top of my head, then another just above my temple. I slide my hand beneath his arm and curl my fingers into his shirt. His lips meet mine.
“Love you,” I murmur.
His expression changes.
“I love you, too, Lois.”
He kisses me once more, then draws me back against him. I close my eyes.
I rest my hand over his heart. He covers it with his own.
“Do you think they’re doing any better?” I ask. “The people from the warehouse?”
“I don’t know.” His thumb moves over my knuckles. “I wonder if there’s been any news.”
He reaches for the remote and turns the TV on, keeping his arm around me.
LNN has picked up the warehouse story. Lex Luthor fills the frame in a dark suit, standing behind a podium bearing the LexCorp seal.
“What happened in that warehouse is a disgrace.” His expression is grave. “LexCorp is establishing an emergency fund to provide medical care, rehabilitation, and long-term support for the survivors. We cannot undo what has been done to these people, but we can make sure they are not left to face the consequences alone.”
The camera pans to an oversized LexCorp cheque.
“He’s making sure everyone knows he’s helping.”
“Is that a bad thing? Lex Luthor has done a lot for this city over the years.” I look at Clark.
“Maybe.” He watches Lex smile for the cameras. “But I just wish the cameras weren’t part of the aid package.”
“You’re right, the oversized cheque is probably a little much.”
The report moves on to Stagg Enterprises. Stagg states his denial of any knowledge of the warehouse operation, while the company confirms that Brenton Oswin, a senior logistics manager who had been with the company for seventeen years, has been dismissed pending investigation.
The screen cuts to a photograph of a middle-aged man in a business suit.
“Seventeen years. And there’s only one person who needs investigating.” I raise an eyebrow.
“What happened in that building is an abomination,” Stagg says. “Senior leadership had no knowledge of these activities. We are cooperating fully with authorities, and we have identified the individual responsible.”
“Convenient.”
He doesn’t argue.
Then the broadcast cuts to the hospital entrance.
“The hospital has also confirmed a substantial private donation from an individual who requested anonymity. The funds will help cover ongoing care and other needs as survivors begin recovering.”
I watch the screen. “That’s good.”
Clark looks at me. “The donation?”
“The fact that someone helped without needing a camera pointed at them.” I nod. “Someone who thought about what those people might actually need.”
“That’s how it should be,” he answers.
I tilt my head to look at him. “What is?”
“Helping someone. You don’t do it so people will think you’re a good person. You do it because someone needs help.”
I study his face for a moment. He says it so simply, as though there’s nothing else to consider.
“And if they never know who helped them?”
“Then they never know.” He shrugs.
I lean against him again, turning his words over in my mind. On the television, the anchor moves on to the next story. I reach for the remote and mute it.
T. B. C.
