The Waiting Room Part 2

Chapter 086: The Waiting Room Part 2 Leah did not open the Sterling email until she had counted every lock in the apartment. Door. Chain. Window latch. Blinds closed. Laptop camera covered. The subject line waited on the screen with the cruelty of a verdict: Employment Verification - Complete. One click could erase Catherine Marsh before she ever touched Thorne Group's elevator buttons. One click could prove Viktor's work had held. Leah rested both palms on the kitchen table, felt the cheap wood press back, and opened it before fear found a more convincing argument. The first word that mattered was satisfactory. Education verified. Employment history verified. Criminal records clear. Credit history within acceptable parameters. Professional references confirmed. Satisfactory. Satisfactory. Satisfactory. Leah read the email once as Catherine Marsh, checking language and consequence. Then she read it again as Isabella Thorne, searching for the hidden knife. There was none. No qualification. No request for additional documentation. No flag that could travel upward to Karen Feldman, David Choi, or Martha's private security channels. Catherine Marsh had passed. The reward should have felt like triumph. Instead it arrived as a narrow opening in a wall. Catherine was real enough to receive payroll, benefits, an employee number, building access, and a desk. Real enough to exist in Thorne Group's systems while Isabella Thorne remained legally dead. Real enough to walk under Martha's roof without anyone knowing the family ghost had learned to sign tax forms. Leah forwarded the result to Ethan. He answered with one sentence: *Do not celebrate yet.* She almost smiled. It was the closest thing to approval he knew how to give. She opened the Moleskine and wrote the facts in clean block letters. Sterling complete. All checks satisfactory. Start date March 24. Twenty-one days. Then she made the list that would keep relief from becoming stupidity: HR paperwork submitted; building access photo scheduled March 17; onboarding packet to review; thirty-fourth-floor layout to memorize; records room on thirty-sixth floor behind level-three access; Geraldine Hoffman to research; Catherine Marsh first-week narrative to rehearse; Megan to notify; L'Etoile hours to reduce; Leah Chen public exposure to narrow. At the bottom, she wrote one line and stared at it until the ink dried. *Catherine Marsh is real.* March 15 brought the first night she let herself say it aloud. Megan poured wine at her kitchen table and pushed a plate of roasted vegetables toward Leah as if food could anchor the conversation. The apartment smelled of rosemary and heat, a domestic safety Leah had forgotten how to trust. "So it's happening," Megan said. "Monday week." "Catherine Marsh walks into Thorne Group." "Yes." Megan studied her over the rim of the glass. "How are you feeling?" "Controlled." "That is not an answer." Leah looked down at the plate. The fork in her hand had not moved. Megan was the only person who could push past her defenses without making Leah want to leave the room. She did it by waiting, by refusing to reward the efficient lie. "Terrified," Leah said. "Good." Leah looked up sharply. "Good that you know it," Megan said. "Not good that you are terrified. Good that you are not pretending terror is a planning category you solved months ago." "Fear gets people killed." "So does pretending you don't feel it." Megan reached across the table and touched Leah's wrist. "You've been alone for two years. You built Leah Chen alone. You built Catherine Marsh with help you barely allowed yourself to accept. What happens Monday is not more hiding. It is you walking into the place that took your name." The words struck harder than Leah expected. She had described the infiltration as access, employment, cover, records strategy. Megan named the wound under it. "What if someone recognizes me?" "Then Catherine Marsh is confused but polite. You rehearsed that." "What if I can't hold it?" "Then you call me." Megan's voice sharpened. "Not after. Not when you have already decided you should handle it alone. You call me while it is happening, and I help you think." Leah wanted to argue. The habit rose by itself: protect Megan, limit exposure, reduce witnesses, keep every person she loved outside Martha's reach. But Megan had already stepped inside the circle. Pretending otherwise was disrespect disguised as caution. "I will call," Leah said. Megan's face softened. "Good. Also, your vegetables are getting cold." For the first time that month, Leah laughed. It surprised both of them. It was small, almost painful, but it belonged to a living woman rather than a constructed one. On March 22, the night before, there was no laughter. Leah stood in front of the bathroom mirror and practiced being Catherine Marsh until the name stopped sounding like an alias and started sounding like a posture. Navy blazer. White blouse. Charcoal slacks. Low ponytail. Minimal makeup. The face in the mirror was not Isabella Thorne's, not Leah Chen's either. It was competent, pleasant, forgettable if you did not know where to look. "Hi, I'm Catherine Marsh," she said. "I'm the new junior analyst in Corporate Strategy. It's great to meet you." Again, warmer. "Hi, I'm Catherine Marsh. I'm the new junior analyst in Corporate Strategy. It's great to meet you." Again, less eager. She rehearsed Hoboken. Rutgers. Boston. Chicago. A hardware-store grandfather Viktor had invented so Catherine could have something ordinary to love. She rehearsed the recognition scenario: a pause, a polite frown, *I think you may be confusing me with someone else.* She rehearsed seeing Richard's name, Martha's name, Sebastian's name, Olivia's name. A blink. Nothing more. The hardest practice was the elevator. Thirty-four floors. Sixty seconds. Martha somewhere above. Leah gripped the sink and forced herself to breathe through the image of rising through 445 Park as a dead girl wearing another woman's employee badge. Before bed, she packed the tote: notebook, pen, water bottle, folder, framed photograph of Catherine's fabricated grandparents' store. She set the outfit on the chair. She placed the permanent-phone charger beside the door and the burner in the false bottom of her bag. The apartment went dark, but sleep did not come. Beneath Catherine's practiced voice and Leah's careful plans, Isabella waited with a child's memory of polished elevators, family offices, and Martha's hand on her shoulder. At 6:00 AM, the alarm would ring. At 8:47, Catherine Marsh would walk through the lobby doors of 445 Park Avenue. And the infiltration would begin.