Robert went to the pharmacy on Thursday afternoon to see Grace.It has been three weeks since he has been planning to visit. Throughout all the time, something had always gotten in the way. A long meeting. An urgent call was received. The particular way in which the smaller priorities filled the space that the larger intentions should have occupied.On Thursday afternoon at two fifteen he looked at his calendar. He had a gap between two and four. He'd been filling these gaps with extra meetings since learning about Harwood and the meeting with Chen on Wednesday morning, where he had been reordering his perception of what he was encountering around him.He closed his calendar.He told Claire that he was leaving. He didn't specify where.He drove himself. No driver. The one part of being in a car by yourself and no call is scheduled. He drove through the city and out the other side where the buildings became less dense and the road straighter and the nature of the landscape settled into

Clara's fever came at two AM Wednesday.Robert was the first to hear her. He was now a light sleeper in a particular way which he had never been before she was born. Not anxiously light. The special state of alertness of a person whose listening had been shifted to a new frequency. When she woke up, he was out of bed hearing her noise and was up and about.He went to her room.He picked her up.She was hot in a way that was wrong. Not the normal heat of a sleeping child. Something more immediate and hot under his hands. He held her close to his chest, felt the heat of her and felt something in his chest that was not thought.In thirty seconds, Roxanne was in the doorway.She walked across the room. She put her hand on Clara's forehead. She looked at Robert."Thermometer," she said.He held Clara while Roxanne got it. The reading agreed with what their hands told them. High. The exact number the books said required attention.Roxanne was on the move. Dressing. She was able to have Robe

Sandra heard it by accident.It was Tuesday afternoon and she had come to the penthouse to see Clara, and arrived earlier than expected because her taxi had been quicker than she would have expected in the midday traffic. Using her key, she entered and shouted out to announce herself. No answer from the main rooms.She heard a voice coming down the hall that was Roxanne's. Guest bedroom door was partially open. Roxanne was talking on the phone. Her voice was audible enough to hear, but Sandra wasn't even planning to listen. She had been walking towards the kitchen with the dish that she brought with her, but when she heard what Roxanne was saying, she stopped.Not the words yet. The tone.The particular tone of Roxanne's voice when she spoke to an acquaintance to whom she was accustomed enough to be completely truthful. It is not the public voice, it's not the professional voice, not even the warm, domestic voice she had used most of the time in the penthouse. Under all those, somethi

On a Friday morning, Dave arrived at the office with the expression he wore when he knew he had made a decision and he'd had to work hard to make it.He knocked on Robert's door. He came in. He closed it behind him.He refused to sit.Robert looked at him."The photograph," Dave said.“I told Roxanne last night," Robert said."I know," Dave said. "Priya called her this morning." He looked at Robert. "That's not why I'm here."Robert waited.Dave went to the window. He was standing with his back to the room facing the city for a moment. Then he turned.“You burnt it," he said."Yes," Robert said."Without telling me first," Dave said. “Without reporting it through the security channel that Chen set up. Not logging it as an incident. Not keeping it as evidence.” His voice was even. Not raised. The exact evenness of someone angry enough but have determined that the anger will be more helpful if controlled. “You burned down some evidence in your kitchen sink, and called me to tell me you

The investigator met with Phillip on Thursday night.Not in the house at Phillip's. A private club located on the west side of the city, for those who needed discretion. It was selected by the investigator. Phillip had accepted the choice without question; the investigator's decisions regarding the security of the operation had worked out fine over the past few months and Phillip had found he didn't want to question what he didn't know how to do.The investigator's name was Carver.He was sixty-one years of age and looked simply as a man who had been unnoticed in his work life all his days. Average height. Neutral clothing. As there was nothing particular enough about it, it formed the kind of face that came together in different ways due to different memory structures in different people. He had served for 30 years in corporate wars under the service of powerful families. He understood the power of information to destroy and the power of information to control.As Phillip came in, he