The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 442

Garrison turned off his phone, plunging the final image on the screen into total darkness. She had been sitting toward the back of the stage, the cello resting against her knee, bathed in a spotlight—quiet and impossibly far away.

He set the phone face-down on the desk and didn't look at it again.

The list of alternative encapsulation companies Assistant Dawson had compiled was still spread out in front of him. A dozen firms were neatly organized into a spreadsheet, complete with detailed notes on production capacity and licensing.

He dragged his finger down the list, line by line. When he hit the third-to-last row, his finger stopped cold.

Taylor Manufacturing Corp.

He obviously knew exactly who owned this company. Jackson Taylor. Sloane's father.

Back when he and Sloane first got married, Taylor Manufacturing was just a struggling facility with a few outdated production lines, perpetually teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.

Then, Garrison's career skyrocketed. He won awards. He made a massive name for himself.

Relying entirely on the Foster family's vast network and reputation, the factory aggressively expanded. It exploded into a massive, modernized corporation specializing in medical consumables and equipment manufacturing.

In recent years, even without actively leaning on the Foster name, the technical foundations they had built allowed them to firmly anchor themselves in the pharmaceutical processing sector.

Garrison leaned back in his chair. He picked up the list. He put it down. He picked it up again.

Finally, he grabbed his car keys, stood up, tossed his white coat over the back of the chair, and walked out.

*

Garrison followed the GPS into The Platinum Heights.

This complex sat in the absolute most expensive real estate district in the city. Even a decade ago, it was exorbitantly priced, and its value had only multiplied since. Anyone living here possessed immense wealth or power. He parked in the underground garage and took the private elevator directly to the penthouse.

He rang the bell for a long time. So long, in fact, he assumed no one was home.

Garrison didn't bring up the encapsulation contract. He just stared at the IV catheter taped to Jackson's bruised hand. After a long, heavy pause, he asked, "What's wrong with your health?"

Jackson followed his gaze down to his own hand, looking almost as if he had forgotten the needle was there.

He let out a dry, rattling laugh.

"Hah. Cancer. Karma, I suppose."

Garrison sat up slightly straighter. "What kind of cancer? Why didn't you come find me?"

"Liver cancer. By the time we caught it, it was terminal. It's already in the lymph nodes."

Jackson's tone was eerily flat. He pulled his pajama sleeve down, hiding the bruised hand and the needle, before looking up at Garrison with a bitter, agonizingly ugly smile. "I had no right to come looking for you. I... I failed Sloane. And I failed you."