Post by Matthews on Feb 10, 2019 20:06:38 GMT -6
Matthews Enterprises
Chicago, IL
February 2, 2019
It was a little known fact that for one of the best views of the Chicago lakeshore, one would have to find access to the top office of Matthews Tower. It wasn’t the tallest building that dotted Chicago’s beautiful skyline, but the positioning near the water made it a prime spot to watch as the hustle of the city moved up and down Lake Shore Drive. In the summer, sailboats dotted the lake horizon, and on particularly windy days, there might even be a few beginner wakeboarders and surfers trying to catch a wave before it broke on the shore. Chicago wasn’t exactly a top spot for the surf scene, but they existed.
Tonight, though, the world was quiet. It was cold. The city still recovered from the arctic blast that had left the landscape frozen. It was warmer tonight, but large slabs of ice drifted down the river, emptying into Lake Michigan, where the lake thawed from the days before. Chuck sat at his desk, staring out at the lights of the city below. He didn’t appear to be focusing anywhere in particular; on the contrary, he was lost in his own thoughts, as was typical. His fingers gently rubbed his temple, and his eyes, ever vigilant and observant, seemed unfocused, as if looking deep into something that only he could see.
His mind raced. Conversations with his sister, with his colleagues. With Nessa. With the nurses. Words came in a clutter, the sound clips playing in his mind faster than his brain could process them. Clips, words and phrases, different people, differen't voices, it was just… noise.
“Are you feeling okay, Charlie? It’s not like you to forget something like that.”
“I’ve compiled the reports, I think you’ll like what I’ve found.”
“Don’t ever contact me again.”
“She’s fine, Mr. Matthews. No incidents in the last month. Your sister’s been visiting a lot lately.”
“Will I see you soon? I feel like it’s been forever.”
“I don’t know, Uncle C. She’s important to me. Both of you are.”
Chuck closed his eyes and took a breath. The noise fell silent. He could hear the wind, roaring outside the tower window. He could hear the low buzz of the ventilation, the hum of the elevator in the lobby. He could hear his slow breaths, and focused on that sound. Breathe in….. And out. Slowly. Breathe in. Think. Breathe out. There was a solution. In. There’s always a solution, you just need to think. Out. Focus.
Memories replayed in his head, like an old film projector, splashing images across his vision, bringing him back to another place. Another time. He saw papers, scattered across his living room floor. Notes, black ink splotches staining the carpet and the coffee table. Nonsensical words, jotted in his illegible chicken scratches. And Betsy… Betsy Granger, the woman who had found him, who had helped to ease his troubled mind.
She was gone now.
And yet, Chuck felt nothing. The woman had, in many ways, saved him from a fate worse than death. But when the time came to show her how much she had meant… when the time came to give her the attention she deserved… he balked. Amazing how the simplest of gestures can seem so daunting when the moment finally arises. Chuck frowned. No point in dwelling on the past.
‘Ironic.’
Even now, he had found solace in the company of Nessa Wall, but lately, they rarely saw each other. On rare occasion, when Chuck was free from board meetings and Ness wasn’t cooped up in the gym, they would steal an afternoon for a quick lunch and a drink. Chuck suspected that their time was rapidly coming to a close. Hell, these days, he saw his assistant more often than he saw Miss Wall. Why didn’t this bother him?
Chuck pulled his hand away from his head, and realized he’d been slowly digging his nails into the flesh, leaving two tiny indentations near his temple. He stared out the window. His face remained expressionless.
Chuck Matthews: “Why isn’t it working?”
He muttered the words to himself. He had looked at the numbers. Cross, Ramsey, his staff, they had all looked at the numbers. But the girl seemed to be getting worse. Chuck recognized the symptoms. He glanced at the drawer of his desk and fumbled with the handle for a moment, seizing a tiny bottle from within. From it, he withdrew an unassuming shiny red pill, which he contemplated taking for a moment, but finally decided against it, setting it on his desk where he could stare at it a moment longer, examining it.
Chuck Matthews: “Why can’t I crack you?"
He whispered softly, as if the tiny capsule would spill its every secret if only it were asked politely. Chuck folded his hands, resting his chin on his knuckles. So much trouble, so much pain, all from a tiny red pill. And yet… Chuck was convinced that it was this same small capsule that held the answer to his life’s greatest riddle. He was there, he was so close, he was right on the cusp of something great, of…. Of finally succeeding where so often he had failed.
Voice: “Do you need a moment?”
Chuck turned to see Blake Ramsey, poking his head into the office. Chuck narrowed his eyes.
Chuck Matthews: “A little late for an office visit, isn’t it?”
Blake Ramsey: “Not when I know you’ll be here.”
Chuck shook his head with a smile.
Chuck Matthews: “What can I do for you?”
Blake stepped forward, waving a manila folder before tossing it on Chuck’s desk.
Blake Ramsey: “Miss Cross sent this to my team today. We’ve been looking it over, and we have a few ideas.”
Chuck raised an eyebrow, but opened the folder, looking over the pages inside. It was definitely Ella’s work: Everything was organized, structured, color-coded in some places, with her own notes written neatly in the margins. Blake and his doctors had written their own observations in places, and torn notebook pages and scraps of paper were interspersed throughout the file, with further information and study into the small red capsule that sat on Chuck’s desk. His eyes scanned the pages. Most of it consisted of various charts, models, formulas that even Chuck didn’t fully understand. Chuck looked up at Ramsey, who nodded.
Blake Ramsey: “We decreased her dose, and it looks to be working. Her brain scans appear normal, and her tinnitus has largely abated.”
He shuffled through the file and brought Chuck’s attention to one of the pages.
Blake Ramsey: “She’s complained of headaches of varying levels, and we’ve found in her scans that her brain is firing-”
He pointed to an image.
Blake Ramsey: “Look familiar?”
Chuck had seen similar scans… in his own brain, after the-... He shook the thought out of his head. He didn’t need to relive that.
Blake Ramsey: “Her promethyrol levels are still too high.”
Chuck Matthews: “It’s still too much?”
Blake Ramsey: “We may have underestimated the efficacy.”
Chuck eyed the capsule.
Chuck Matthews: “How much smaller can we make it?”
Blake Ramsey: “We’re working on a ten milligram.”
Chuck Matthews: “That’s less than half of what she's on now.”
Blake paused.
Blake Ramsey: “Yeah. I know.”
Chuck slumped back in his chair.
Chuck Matthews: “We started her at fifty.”
Blake Ramsey: “Yeah…”
He rubbed the back of his neck. Chuck stared at the ceiling, and for a moment was silent.
Blake Ramsey: “It works. If all else fails, at least we know it works.”
Chuck Matthews: “But at what cost?”
Chuck sat up, looking at Ramsey. Ramsey could not remember a time when Chuck had looked so worn. The wrinkles in his forehead, the bags beneath his eyes, a couple of cuts on his cheeks, the result of shaving too quickly and nicking the skin. Even his posture, normally swelling with pride and confidence, seemed deflated, sluggish… a man who had taken on a burden that no man should have to endure. Yet, even in spite of this, it was not defeat that Ramsey saw in Chuck’s face, nor pity. It was… guilt.
Chuck Matthews: “How many lives are we about to ruin?”
Blake was silent, shaking his head.
Blake Ramsey: “We’ll correct the formu-”
Chuck Matthews: “How many? A hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand?”
Blake Ramsey: “The doctors understand the risk.”
Chuck got to his feet, slamming his fist in frustration on his desk.
Chuck Matthews: “Chloe Collins understood the risk!”
He took a deep breath. It was rare for him to have an outburst like that.
Chuck Matthews: “In two months, hundreds of people are going to begin taking promethyrol. Every one of our clinical trials has had side effects. Every single one.”
Blake Ramsey: “But every one of them has worked.”
Chuck Matthews: “What does it matter if the FDA won’t approve it?”
Blake Ramsey: “The FDA takes its sweet time. Long-term effects, further testing, more stable data… give in another few years, you’ll have your approval. The drug works.”
Chuck Matthews: “Not for the reasons I need.”
Blake Ramsey: “At least it’s a step in the right direction, Matthews. Is that not why we’re selling this overseas? The export-only medical trade is a forty-one billion dollar industry. We distribute, we collect the data. We improve the formula. You get your FDA approval, and we get a stronger product, and we can work so that it DOES do what you need it to do.”
Chuck Matthews: “This isn’t buying out a company and putting people out of work for a few weeks. These are people’s lives.”
Blake scoffed.
Blake Ramsey: “When has that ever stopped you before?”
Chuck paused. He shook his head. Blake was right. For ten years, he had been driven by a single obsession. The discovery of Alan Marshall’s promethyrol was a leap closer to his final goal. But the drug was dangerous. It was volatile and the effects it had on the human body were terrifying at best and inhumane at worst. The memory still stuck in Chuck’s mind… that feeling of overwhelming, of every thought, every memory, rushing into your brain simultaneously. The feeling of disorganization, of chaos within your mind, and anytime you tried to communicate, the words became garbled, the thoughts became incoherent and Chuck found himself obsessively writing out every idea that crossed his head, simply to expel it and try to free up the clutter. He had nearly lost his mind, and now, seeing the brain scans of the young Collins, seeing the effects, he couldn’t help but wonder:
‘Does she feel what I did?’
She had so much promise. She was a bright young mind, full of curiosity, intrigue. She had a bright future, as a journalist, as an investigator, and now? Had she thrown it all away, simply because Chuck Matthews had asked her to?
Blake Ramsey: “I know you’re worried about the Collins girl.”
Chuck Matthews: “We’ve ruined her.”
Blake Ramsey: “She said it herself… you offered her a way out. She had nothing to lose.”
Chuck Matthews: “She wasn’t in the right mind to make that decision.”
Blake Ramsey: “Her doctor thought otherwise.”
Chuck sighs. They’re silent for a few minutes.
Chuck Matthews: “I need to think.”
Blake nodded.
Blake Ramsey: “Think about what I said, Chuck. I understand this isn’t an easy decision to make.”
Recognizing Chuck’s conflict, he gave the genius a gentle pat on the shoulder.
Blake Ramsey: “But you’ve always been good at making the tough calls, eh?”
He offered a reassuring smile before making a slow retreat from the room. Chuck motioned to the folder.
Chuck Matthews: “Do you need the file?”
Ramsey waved him off.
Blake Ramsey: “We have copies.”
The door swung open just as Blake reached for the handle, and the businessman took a quick step back to avoid being struck. Ella Cross stepped in, looking to Chuck.
Chuck Matthews: “Does nobody sleep in this city?”
Ella Cross: “I wanted to get some work done. I… needed the distraction.”
She turned and, for the first time, spotted Blake Ramsey standing uncomfortably near the door. She looked from Ramsey to Chuck.
Ella Cross: “Why do I always feel that it’s extremely dangerous to have the two of you in the same room?”
A coy smile crosses Blake’s lips.
Blake Ramsey: “Because it probably is.”
He bows respectfully to Ella before slipping out of the room. Ella cups her hands in front of her, watching intently as Blake crossed the lobby, and she refused to break her stare until the elevator door had finally closed on Ramsey, breaking her line of sight. She closed the door.
Ella Cross: “I don’t like him.”
Chuck rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had a headache.
Chuck Matthews: “Yeah, I think he gets that a lot.”
Ella frowned.
Ella Cross: “I understand why we need him, but I’m not comfortable doing such business with a…. a…”
Chuck Matthews: “Weapons manufacturer?”
Ella Cross: “War profiteer.”
Chuck laughs. It wasn’t the first time someone had used that phrase to describe Blake Ramsey.
Ella Cross: “I see he delivered my file.”
Chuck Matthews: “Excellent work, as always.”
He returned his gaze to the pages, absentmindedly flipping through them.
Ella Cross: “Something is bothering you.”
It wasn't a question. Chuck glanced up, raising his brow. He smiled, waving her off.
Chuck Matthews: “Hm? No, it’s nothing. Headache.”
Ella pursed her lips. Chuck caught her eye for a moment. He sighed. She seemed to have an eerie ability to know precisely when Chuck wasn’t being entirely honest. He buckled.
Chuck Matthews: “Do you ever think, perhaps, that we’re going about this the wrong way?”
Ella Cross: “‘Wrong’ is a very subjective term.”
Chuck Matthews: “I’ve been thinking about the Collins case.”
Ella Cross: “You’re afraid that promethyrol isn’t ready for distribution.”
Chuck Matthews: “We sent the labs and the trial information. It may not have been good enough for the US, but there were several nations overseas who disagreed.”
Ella Cross: “But you don’t think that’s enough.”
Chuck returns his attention to the pages, slowly thumbing through the notes.
Chuck Matthews: “Does the end really justify the means?”
Ella Cross: “I suppose that depends on what you intend the end to be.”
Ella pulled up a chair, sitting across the desk from Chuck. He says nothing, and gives no indication that he had even heard what she said, but she had no doubt that he did. Chuck was like that: Always observing, his senses always on high alert. The gears were always turning in the man’s head.
Chuck Matthews: “I guess it’s something I’ll need to think about.”
His voice was soft, solemn. His eyes scanned the pages of the folder, but there’s a sense of urgency as he turns the pages; whatever information, whatever answers he had hoped to find within the confines of the yellow folder were not there. Ella watched him for a few silent moments. He was brilliant, there was no arguing that. And, yes, she had become quite adept at speaking his language and picking up on the tiny intricacies of his behavior, his actions, his speech. Still, she had worked with him long enough to realize that there were some things he kept to himself. He was haunted by something, though what it was, she wasn’t entirely sure… but she knew that it motivated him, drove him to do great things… and, yes, sometimes terrible things as well. It consumed him, demanding his every moment, every thought, every action. It troubled him. Aurora had warned her about that before she took the job: Chuck was not a man who often sought help. Ella gingerly placed a hand on the folder, stopping Chuck from turning another page, and forcing his attention on her.
Ella Cross: “Sometimes the smartest, and the hardest thing for a man to do is admit ‘I don’t know the answer.’”
Chuck was silent. He stared at her a moment, letting her words sink in. Finally, he relaxed, sitting back in his seat, pushing the folder away. A long, shuddering sigh escaped him. He found he couldn’t look her in the eye. Ella watched him a moment. Like Blake, she could see the signs of wear. She frowned.
Ella Cross: “You need rest.”
Chuck Matthews: “I could say the same to you.”
His response was instant, but not malicious. She smiled sheepishly.
Ella Cross: “I suppose we both have our crosses to bear.”
Chuck lifted his shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, slowly turning back to Ella and the folder. He glanced down at it, but stopped. His eyes narrowed.
Chuck Matthews: “Let me see that…”
Before Ella could stop him, Chuck had pulled the folder from beneath her hand, focusing on a loose page that slipped from the file. He flipped through the charts and the figures to the final page.
Chuck Matthews: “...that’s it.”
Ella looked curiously at him, but Chuck was already scrolling through his phone, searching for something in the deep recesses of his emails. His eyes lit up, the way they often did when an idea had finally struck him.
Chuck Matthews: “We need to see Ramsey.”
Ella Cross: “What about?”
She spoke, but Chuck was already halfway out the room, pressing the phone to his ear as it dialed Blake’s number. In the office, Ella looked at the file, turning it to see the page. There, barely bound to the page by a paperclip, she found a slip of paper with a single word. It was not one of Ella’s notes; rather, a hastily scribbled note by one of Blake’s medical staff:
“Withdrawal.”
Chicago, IL
February 2, 2019
It was a little known fact that for one of the best views of the Chicago lakeshore, one would have to find access to the top office of Matthews Tower. It wasn’t the tallest building that dotted Chicago’s beautiful skyline, but the positioning near the water made it a prime spot to watch as the hustle of the city moved up and down Lake Shore Drive. In the summer, sailboats dotted the lake horizon, and on particularly windy days, there might even be a few beginner wakeboarders and surfers trying to catch a wave before it broke on the shore. Chicago wasn’t exactly a top spot for the surf scene, but they existed.
Tonight, though, the world was quiet. It was cold. The city still recovered from the arctic blast that had left the landscape frozen. It was warmer tonight, but large slabs of ice drifted down the river, emptying into Lake Michigan, where the lake thawed from the days before. Chuck sat at his desk, staring out at the lights of the city below. He didn’t appear to be focusing anywhere in particular; on the contrary, he was lost in his own thoughts, as was typical. His fingers gently rubbed his temple, and his eyes, ever vigilant and observant, seemed unfocused, as if looking deep into something that only he could see.
His mind raced. Conversations with his sister, with his colleagues. With Nessa. With the nurses. Words came in a clutter, the sound clips playing in his mind faster than his brain could process them. Clips, words and phrases, different people, differen't voices, it was just… noise.
“Are you feeling okay, Charlie? It’s not like you to forget something like that.”
“I’ve compiled the reports, I think you’ll like what I’ve found.”
“Don’t ever contact me again.”
“She’s fine, Mr. Matthews. No incidents in the last month. Your sister’s been visiting a lot lately.”
“Will I see you soon? I feel like it’s been forever.”
“I don’t know, Uncle C. She’s important to me. Both of you are.”
Chuck closed his eyes and took a breath. The noise fell silent. He could hear the wind, roaring outside the tower window. He could hear the low buzz of the ventilation, the hum of the elevator in the lobby. He could hear his slow breaths, and focused on that sound. Breathe in….. And out. Slowly. Breathe in. Think. Breathe out. There was a solution. In. There’s always a solution, you just need to think. Out. Focus.
Memories replayed in his head, like an old film projector, splashing images across his vision, bringing him back to another place. Another time. He saw papers, scattered across his living room floor. Notes, black ink splotches staining the carpet and the coffee table. Nonsensical words, jotted in his illegible chicken scratches. And Betsy… Betsy Granger, the woman who had found him, who had helped to ease his troubled mind.
She was gone now.
And yet, Chuck felt nothing. The woman had, in many ways, saved him from a fate worse than death. But when the time came to show her how much she had meant… when the time came to give her the attention she deserved… he balked. Amazing how the simplest of gestures can seem so daunting when the moment finally arises. Chuck frowned. No point in dwelling on the past.
‘Ironic.’
Even now, he had found solace in the company of Nessa Wall, but lately, they rarely saw each other. On rare occasion, when Chuck was free from board meetings and Ness wasn’t cooped up in the gym, they would steal an afternoon for a quick lunch and a drink. Chuck suspected that their time was rapidly coming to a close. Hell, these days, he saw his assistant more often than he saw Miss Wall. Why didn’t this bother him?
Chuck pulled his hand away from his head, and realized he’d been slowly digging his nails into the flesh, leaving two tiny indentations near his temple. He stared out the window. His face remained expressionless.
Chuck Matthews: “Why isn’t it working?”
He muttered the words to himself. He had looked at the numbers. Cross, Ramsey, his staff, they had all looked at the numbers. But the girl seemed to be getting worse. Chuck recognized the symptoms. He glanced at the drawer of his desk and fumbled with the handle for a moment, seizing a tiny bottle from within. From it, he withdrew an unassuming shiny red pill, which he contemplated taking for a moment, but finally decided against it, setting it on his desk where he could stare at it a moment longer, examining it.
Chuck Matthews: “Why can’t I crack you?"
He whispered softly, as if the tiny capsule would spill its every secret if only it were asked politely. Chuck folded his hands, resting his chin on his knuckles. So much trouble, so much pain, all from a tiny red pill. And yet… Chuck was convinced that it was this same small capsule that held the answer to his life’s greatest riddle. He was there, he was so close, he was right on the cusp of something great, of…. Of finally succeeding where so often he had failed.
Voice: “Do you need a moment?”
Chuck turned to see Blake Ramsey, poking his head into the office. Chuck narrowed his eyes.
Chuck Matthews: “A little late for an office visit, isn’t it?”
Blake Ramsey: “Not when I know you’ll be here.”
Chuck shook his head with a smile.
Chuck Matthews: “What can I do for you?”
Blake stepped forward, waving a manila folder before tossing it on Chuck’s desk.
Blake Ramsey: “Miss Cross sent this to my team today. We’ve been looking it over, and we have a few ideas.”
Chuck raised an eyebrow, but opened the folder, looking over the pages inside. It was definitely Ella’s work: Everything was organized, structured, color-coded in some places, with her own notes written neatly in the margins. Blake and his doctors had written their own observations in places, and torn notebook pages and scraps of paper were interspersed throughout the file, with further information and study into the small red capsule that sat on Chuck’s desk. His eyes scanned the pages. Most of it consisted of various charts, models, formulas that even Chuck didn’t fully understand. Chuck looked up at Ramsey, who nodded.
Blake Ramsey: “We decreased her dose, and it looks to be working. Her brain scans appear normal, and her tinnitus has largely abated.”
He shuffled through the file and brought Chuck’s attention to one of the pages.
Blake Ramsey: “She’s complained of headaches of varying levels, and we’ve found in her scans that her brain is firing-”
He pointed to an image.
Blake Ramsey: “Look familiar?”
Chuck had seen similar scans… in his own brain, after the-... He shook the thought out of his head. He didn’t need to relive that.
Blake Ramsey: “Her promethyrol levels are still too high.”
Chuck Matthews: “It’s still too much?”
Blake Ramsey: “We may have underestimated the efficacy.”
Chuck eyed the capsule.
Chuck Matthews: “How much smaller can we make it?”
Blake Ramsey: “We’re working on a ten milligram.”
Chuck Matthews: “That’s less than half of what she's on now.”
Blake paused.
Blake Ramsey: “Yeah. I know.”
Chuck slumped back in his chair.
Chuck Matthews: “We started her at fifty.”
Blake Ramsey: “Yeah…”
He rubbed the back of his neck. Chuck stared at the ceiling, and for a moment was silent.
Blake Ramsey: “It works. If all else fails, at least we know it works.”
Chuck Matthews: “But at what cost?”
Chuck sat up, looking at Ramsey. Ramsey could not remember a time when Chuck had looked so worn. The wrinkles in his forehead, the bags beneath his eyes, a couple of cuts on his cheeks, the result of shaving too quickly and nicking the skin. Even his posture, normally swelling with pride and confidence, seemed deflated, sluggish… a man who had taken on a burden that no man should have to endure. Yet, even in spite of this, it was not defeat that Ramsey saw in Chuck’s face, nor pity. It was… guilt.
Chuck Matthews: “How many lives are we about to ruin?”
Blake was silent, shaking his head.
Blake Ramsey: “We’ll correct the formu-”
Chuck Matthews: “How many? A hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand?”
Blake Ramsey: “The doctors understand the risk.”
Chuck got to his feet, slamming his fist in frustration on his desk.
Chuck Matthews: “Chloe Collins understood the risk!”
He took a deep breath. It was rare for him to have an outburst like that.
Chuck Matthews: “In two months, hundreds of people are going to begin taking promethyrol. Every one of our clinical trials has had side effects. Every single one.”
Blake Ramsey: “But every one of them has worked.”
Chuck Matthews: “What does it matter if the FDA won’t approve it?”
Blake Ramsey: “The FDA takes its sweet time. Long-term effects, further testing, more stable data… give in another few years, you’ll have your approval. The drug works.”
Chuck Matthews: “Not for the reasons I need.”
Blake Ramsey: “At least it’s a step in the right direction, Matthews. Is that not why we’re selling this overseas? The export-only medical trade is a forty-one billion dollar industry. We distribute, we collect the data. We improve the formula. You get your FDA approval, and we get a stronger product, and we can work so that it DOES do what you need it to do.”
Chuck Matthews: “This isn’t buying out a company and putting people out of work for a few weeks. These are people’s lives.”
Blake scoffed.
Blake Ramsey: “When has that ever stopped you before?”
Chuck paused. He shook his head. Blake was right. For ten years, he had been driven by a single obsession. The discovery of Alan Marshall’s promethyrol was a leap closer to his final goal. But the drug was dangerous. It was volatile and the effects it had on the human body were terrifying at best and inhumane at worst. The memory still stuck in Chuck’s mind… that feeling of overwhelming, of every thought, every memory, rushing into your brain simultaneously. The feeling of disorganization, of chaos within your mind, and anytime you tried to communicate, the words became garbled, the thoughts became incoherent and Chuck found himself obsessively writing out every idea that crossed his head, simply to expel it and try to free up the clutter. He had nearly lost his mind, and now, seeing the brain scans of the young Collins, seeing the effects, he couldn’t help but wonder:
‘Does she feel what I did?’
She had so much promise. She was a bright young mind, full of curiosity, intrigue. She had a bright future, as a journalist, as an investigator, and now? Had she thrown it all away, simply because Chuck Matthews had asked her to?
Blake Ramsey: “I know you’re worried about the Collins girl.”
Chuck Matthews: “We’ve ruined her.”
Blake Ramsey: “She said it herself… you offered her a way out. She had nothing to lose.”
Chuck Matthews: “She wasn’t in the right mind to make that decision.”
Blake Ramsey: “Her doctor thought otherwise.”
Chuck sighs. They’re silent for a few minutes.
Chuck Matthews: “I need to think.”
Blake nodded.
Blake Ramsey: “Think about what I said, Chuck. I understand this isn’t an easy decision to make.”
Recognizing Chuck’s conflict, he gave the genius a gentle pat on the shoulder.
Blake Ramsey: “But you’ve always been good at making the tough calls, eh?”
He offered a reassuring smile before making a slow retreat from the room. Chuck motioned to the folder.
Chuck Matthews: “Do you need the file?”
Ramsey waved him off.
Blake Ramsey: “We have copies.”
The door swung open just as Blake reached for the handle, and the businessman took a quick step back to avoid being struck. Ella Cross stepped in, looking to Chuck.
Chuck Matthews: “Does nobody sleep in this city?”
Ella Cross: “I wanted to get some work done. I… needed the distraction.”
She turned and, for the first time, spotted Blake Ramsey standing uncomfortably near the door. She looked from Ramsey to Chuck.
Ella Cross: “Why do I always feel that it’s extremely dangerous to have the two of you in the same room?”
A coy smile crosses Blake’s lips.
Blake Ramsey: “Because it probably is.”
He bows respectfully to Ella before slipping out of the room. Ella cups her hands in front of her, watching intently as Blake crossed the lobby, and she refused to break her stare until the elevator door had finally closed on Ramsey, breaking her line of sight. She closed the door.
Ella Cross: “I don’t like him.”
Chuck rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had a headache.
Chuck Matthews: “Yeah, I think he gets that a lot.”
Ella frowned.
Ella Cross: “I understand why we need him, but I’m not comfortable doing such business with a…. a…”
Chuck Matthews: “Weapons manufacturer?”
Ella Cross: “War profiteer.”
Chuck laughs. It wasn’t the first time someone had used that phrase to describe Blake Ramsey.
Ella Cross: “I see he delivered my file.”
Chuck Matthews: “Excellent work, as always.”
He returned his gaze to the pages, absentmindedly flipping through them.
Ella Cross: “Something is bothering you.”
It wasn't a question. Chuck glanced up, raising his brow. He smiled, waving her off.
Chuck Matthews: “Hm? No, it’s nothing. Headache.”
Ella pursed her lips. Chuck caught her eye for a moment. He sighed. She seemed to have an eerie ability to know precisely when Chuck wasn’t being entirely honest. He buckled.
Chuck Matthews: “Do you ever think, perhaps, that we’re going about this the wrong way?”
Ella Cross: “‘Wrong’ is a very subjective term.”
Chuck Matthews: “I’ve been thinking about the Collins case.”
Ella Cross: “You’re afraid that promethyrol isn’t ready for distribution.”
Chuck Matthews: “We sent the labs and the trial information. It may not have been good enough for the US, but there were several nations overseas who disagreed.”
Ella Cross: “But you don’t think that’s enough.”
Chuck returns his attention to the pages, slowly thumbing through the notes.
Chuck Matthews: “Does the end really justify the means?”
Ella Cross: “I suppose that depends on what you intend the end to be.”
Ella pulled up a chair, sitting across the desk from Chuck. He says nothing, and gives no indication that he had even heard what she said, but she had no doubt that he did. Chuck was like that: Always observing, his senses always on high alert. The gears were always turning in the man’s head.
Chuck Matthews: “I guess it’s something I’ll need to think about.”
His voice was soft, solemn. His eyes scanned the pages of the folder, but there’s a sense of urgency as he turns the pages; whatever information, whatever answers he had hoped to find within the confines of the yellow folder were not there. Ella watched him for a few silent moments. He was brilliant, there was no arguing that. And, yes, she had become quite adept at speaking his language and picking up on the tiny intricacies of his behavior, his actions, his speech. Still, she had worked with him long enough to realize that there were some things he kept to himself. He was haunted by something, though what it was, she wasn’t entirely sure… but she knew that it motivated him, drove him to do great things… and, yes, sometimes terrible things as well. It consumed him, demanding his every moment, every thought, every action. It troubled him. Aurora had warned her about that before she took the job: Chuck was not a man who often sought help. Ella gingerly placed a hand on the folder, stopping Chuck from turning another page, and forcing his attention on her.
Ella Cross: “Sometimes the smartest, and the hardest thing for a man to do is admit ‘I don’t know the answer.’”
Chuck was silent. He stared at her a moment, letting her words sink in. Finally, he relaxed, sitting back in his seat, pushing the folder away. A long, shuddering sigh escaped him. He found he couldn’t look her in the eye. Ella watched him a moment. Like Blake, she could see the signs of wear. She frowned.
Ella Cross: “You need rest.”
Chuck Matthews: “I could say the same to you.”
His response was instant, but not malicious. She smiled sheepishly.
Ella Cross: “I suppose we both have our crosses to bear.”
Chuck lifted his shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, slowly turning back to Ella and the folder. He glanced down at it, but stopped. His eyes narrowed.
Chuck Matthews: “Let me see that…”
Before Ella could stop him, Chuck had pulled the folder from beneath her hand, focusing on a loose page that slipped from the file. He flipped through the charts and the figures to the final page.
Chuck Matthews: “...that’s it.”
Ella looked curiously at him, but Chuck was already scrolling through his phone, searching for something in the deep recesses of his emails. His eyes lit up, the way they often did when an idea had finally struck him.
Chuck Matthews: “We need to see Ramsey.”
Ella Cross: “What about?”
She spoke, but Chuck was already halfway out the room, pressing the phone to his ear as it dialed Blake’s number. In the office, Ella looked at the file, turning it to see the page. There, barely bound to the page by a paperclip, she found a slip of paper with a single word. It was not one of Ella’s notes; rather, a hastily scribbled note by one of Blake’s medical staff:
“Withdrawal.”