“At the con?” The event organizer’s voice was a little too crisp, like he’d been meaning to come across as enthusiastic, but had overshot and landed headfirst in frantic. “We have about one hundred and thirty thousand attendees.”
“In the panel room,” Harlow clarified. “Is it at max capacity?”
Evie walked beside him, silent, hands folded behind her back. Both of them knew that the room was going to be full—all five hundred seats. Geek Out Con sold out months in advance, and the celebrity panels filled up just as quickly. But despite the uselessness of the question, it served a purpose. The organizer’s reply would give Harlow a look into how the event was going behind the scenes. While his team was equipped to handle any situation at any time, it was helpful to know if the organizers felt everything was going well, or if there were hiccups to be made aware of.
Harlow didn’t expect a straightforward answer—the organizer’s tone and body language would be enough to tell him what he wanted to know.
“We’re operating at max, yes.” Another flighty, frantic answer. The organizer looked over his shoulder at Harlow, his shoulders tense. When Harlow met his gaze, he jumped and looked away. “There’s been a waiting list for tickets. Even if someone doesn’t show up, their spot will be filled—there won’t be an empty seat in the room.”
“Great,” Evie said breezily. “You got this, right, Dad?”
“I’ve always got this,” Harlow confirmed. “You just do your thing, kiddo. Let me take care of the rest.”
The event organizer came to an abrupt stop. They’d reached the end of the hallway—three steep steps led to a closed door, its wood chipped to reveal the flimsy pulp beneath. During their first few convention circuits, Harlow had been surprised at how run-down the staff-only sections of many convention halls were. Now it came as no surprise. If it wasn’t routinely in the public eye, it didn’t matter. It was a mantra Harlow was all too familiar with—one he tried never to let define him.
“Who’s already there?” Evie asked the event organizer. “Is Justin there?”
“Mr. Outerbridge is there,” the event organizer confirmed. “As Mr. Warwick requested, you were the last retrieved from the back rooms.”
“Awesome.” Evie beamed at him. “Thank you. That’s really great news.”
The event organizer went bright red, negating all the signs of nervousness Harlow had been reading off him moments before. With a jerky, flighty gesture, he swept his hand toward the door. “O-Of course, Ms. Warwick. Enjoy your… your event.”
“Thank you!” Evie replied graciously, every bit as enthusiastic as she usually was—but Harlow remembered the dead look in her eyes barely masked by false enthusiasm, and found himself unconvinced. When she turned her gaze to him to nod toward the door, the hollowness was gone, but its memory haunted Harlow’s mind. “Dad?”
Their routine was set—wherever Evie went, Harlow went first.
“On it.” Harlow climbed the stairs. On his way past the event organizer, he leaned in close only long enough to utter, “She’s sixteen, buddy,” before reaching the top step and opening the door. The handle turned smoothly beneath his hand, and the door opened without complaint. Harlow switched his mind staunchly into work mode, stepped through the threshold, and left the past another step behind him.
