Chapter sixteen
Arthur
The commute home is predictable—seventeen minutes with average traffic, twenty-three if there's construction. Today it's seventeen.
The gates recognize my car and part smoothly. The house stands just as I left it this morning—composed, symmetrical, impervious.
Unchanged.
Inside, the foyer is quiet. The living room empty. I set my keys in their designated tray, loosen my tie exactly one inch.
Then I hear it—voices from the kitchen. One of them Lindsay's.
I slow without deciding to.
I find her at the kitchen table, but it takes me a moment to process what I'm seeing.
Lindsay has her laptop open, phone face-up beside it, notifications stacking faster than she can clear them.
She isn't frantic. She's trying to be strategic—scrolling, pausing, rereading, deleting.
But the volume alone makes her look like she's standing in shallow water, fighting the undertow.
I set my briefcase down and watch for a moment longer than necessary.
She glances up when she senses me there. I see it in her eyes. She's tired.
"This isn't going to stop," I say. I keep my voice even. "Not on its own."
Lindsay exhales. "I'm noticing."
She's wearing that pink hoodie again—the one covered in rhinestones or sequins or whatever makes it catch light like that. It's out of place in my kitchen with its clean lines and neutral palette. But I don't comment on it. Not today.
"How long have you been at this?" I ask, moving closer.
"Three hours? Four?" She shrugs one shoulder. "I stopped counting."
Her screen shows a mess of open tabs—social media accounts, email, messaging platforms I don't recognize. Every few seconds, something new pops up. A name. A request. A comment. All demanding attention.
I don't take the phone from her hand. I don't start listing solutions like I'm presenting in a boardroom. I'm not interested in becoming her daily system administrator.
I call Steven.
He arrives within minutes, as if he's been waiting in the walls. That's his job. Head of staff means the house functions whether I'm present or not.
Steven is mid-forties, discreet, composed. He wears confidence like a tailored suit. He gives Lindsay a polite nod.
"Steven," I say, "I need this stabilized. Quietly. Immediately." I gesture toward the devices.
Steven takes in the situation with one glance. The missed calls. The message requests. The unknown numbers. The emails flagged urgent that aren't urgent at all.
He doesn't react emotionally. He simply categorizes.
As do I.
Lindsay watches him, then me. "Is everyone in your world named something serious?" she asks.
Steven's mouth tightens as if he's not sure whether that's humor or a test.
