Chapter 3
Martin called me forty-three times before dawn.
At four fifteen, he stopped and sat on the hotel balcony with his phone burning in his hand.
A knock sounded behind him.
Derek came in wearing a hotel robe, his hair standing up in every direction.
“What happened? The operations chat is insane.”
Martin didn't ask how he'd entered without permission.
“Everhart wants Ethan on Monday.”
“The deck is done.”
“They want Ethan. They checked the revision history. They know he built all four phases.”
Derek froze with one hand on a water bottle.
“There must be some misunderstanding. It was a team project.”
“The logs show every draft, timestamp, source model, and IP address.”
Derek twisted the cap crooked. Water spilled over his hand and onto the carpet.
“The server also went down,” Martin said. “The backup key and recovery procedure are with Ethan.”
Derek let the bottle fall.
“Has he answered?”
“His phone has been off since you posted that picture.”
Derek's mouth moved.
The words I was joking never came out.
He knew it hadn't been a joke.
He had photographed the empty seat because he wanted me to see it. He wanted me to know that the company was celebrating without me.
Now he stood barefoot in spilled water and asked, “What do we do?”
Martin began packing.
“We take the first flight home. You, me, and Fiona.”
At the airport, Fiona kept twisting the corner of her boarding pass.
“Why am I being dragged back?” she asked.
Martin looked at her. “Why wasn't Ethan on the list?”
“He doesn't socialize. Everybody's uncomfortable around him.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Her eyes shifted toward Derek.
“Derek said not to invite him.”
Derek turned. “Don't put this all on me.”
“You said, ‘If Ethan comes, nobody will have fun.’ Your exact words.”
“Enough,” Martin snapped.
He called me again.
Missed call number fifty-eight.
Then he called Sophie and asked for my address.
“When you get there,” she said, “don't start with work.”
“What?”
“Ask whether he's okay before you ask him to save the company.”
Back at headquarters, Kevin sat on the server-room floor with the emergency manual hugged to his chest. Red status lights flashed over his face.
He found a handwritten note near the back.
If you're reading this, things are bad. Don't panic. Run the drive diagnostic on page 37 and send me the error code. Backup number is on the last page.
Kevin flipped to the end.
The backup number was my regular cell.
He called it anyway.
Off.
At six twelve, Adrian sat in his home office with my personnel file open.
Ethan Reed.
Three years, two months at BluePeak.
Associate strategist.
$48,000 a year.
One forty-eight-thousand-dollar employee had built the strategy behind a $3.4 million account and was quietly keeping the company network alive.
Then BluePeak had excluded him from the retreat.
Adrian searched Northstar Media's recruiting posts. Julian Cross, Northstar's founder, had written two days earlier:
Looking for a data-driven strategy lead. Triple the right person's salary. Team ownership and equity. Serious inquiries only.
Adrian called Mr. Lawson, the security guard.
“Did you see Ethan leave yesterday?”
“Sure did. Before five.”
“How did he seem?”
“Quiet. Same as always. Rode that beat-up bike of his toward home. Stopped for a bottle on the way.”
Adrian took his car keys.
At seven forty-five, sunlight slipped through the gap in my curtains and drew a thin line across the floor.
I rolled over and opened my eyes.
For three seconds, I stared at the ceiling without knowing what day it was.
Saturday.
No work.
I tried to go back to sleep, but the bourbon had other plans. My stomach cramped. I stumbled to the bathroom, dry-heaved over the toilet, and splashed cold water on my face.
The man in the mirror had dark circles under his eyes, cracked lips, and hair pointing in six directions.
While brushing my teeth, I remembered my phone.
It had been off almost thirteen hours.
I pulled it from the desk drawer and held down the power button.
The screen lit.
Then the phone started vibrating so hard I almost dropped it.
Calls, texts, chat messages. Notification after notification crashed onto the screen for nearly a minute.
164 missed calls.
I blinked and checked again.
Seventy-four from Martin. Thirty-one from Adrian. Sixteen from Sophie. Nineteen from Kevin. The rest were split among Fiona, Derek, and four unknown numbers.
There were 387 unread messages and twenty-two texts.
Martin's began at ten the night before.
Ethan, call me. Emergency.
At one:
Please turn on your phone.
At three:
I know the retreat was handled badly. Yell at me later. Just call first.
At four thirty:
I'm at the airport. Are you home? Are you safe?
Adrian's messages appeared after six.
This is Adrian Cole. Please contact me as soon as possible.
Then:
I'm on my way to your apartment. Don't worry about work. We need to speak in person.
Kevin had sent:
ETHAN ETHAN ETHAN THE SERVER IS DYING.
And Sophie:
Please send one word so I know you're alive.
The newest text was from Martin.
I screwed up. Please, for the love of God, call me.
I set the phone down, opened the curtains, and squinted as sunlight flooded the apartment.
On the street below, a coffee cart had opened. Someone was walking a beagle. A bus groaned away from the curb.
I looked back at the phone.
I'd only gone to sleep.
What could possibly have happened to an entire company overnight?
I went downstairs and bought a bacon-and-egg sandwich, hash browns, and coffee.
The woman at the counter took one look at me and said, “Rough night?”
“Long week.”
Back upstairs, I answered Sophie first.
I'm fine. I was asleep.
Her reply came in three seconds.
YOU'RE ALIVE. Martin and Adrian are both driving to your place. Do you understand how insane that sentence is?
My phone rang.
Martin.
I answered.
“ETHAN!”
I held the phone away from my ear.
“Morning, Martin.”
“You turned your phone off for thirteen hours.”
“I was sleeping.”
The line went silent.
When he spoke again, his voice had dropped from a shout to something close to pleading.
“Stay where you are. I'm twenty minutes away. Adrian's coming too.”
“Why?”
“Everhart's chairman wants you. The server is down. Northstar is trying to recruit you.”
My breakfast sandwich stopped halfway to my mouth.
“What?”
“Twenty minutes. Don't leave.”
He hung up.
I looked down at myself. Yesterday's T-shirt. Plaid sleep pants. One sock.
My bed was unmade. The bourbon bottle lay beside a scatter of peanut shells. The sink held two bowls and every fork I owned.
The CEO was coming to my apartment.
I took another bite of breakfast.
There wasn't enough time to pretend I lived differently.
