My phone vibrated on the glass desk for the fourth time in ten minutes, sliding an inch to the left. It was a heavy, slate-grey model, and the steady hum against the glass made a high-pitched rattle that filled the quiet office.
I did not pick it up.
Nadia stood by the low wooden cabinets near the door, sorting the morning mail into three neat stacks. She adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses, sliding them up the bridge of her nose with her index finger as she studied a certified envelope from the state licensing board.
“There are seven more physical notices from Mercer Freight Systems,” she said.
I rolled the heavy silver paperweight across my blotter, watching the grey morning light catch its polished edge. It made a soft, metallic click against the brass tray. The weight of the silver was cold in my hand, a solid anchor on a desk that usually remained completely clear of personal objects.
“Leave them on the bottom shelf,” I said.
The phone buzzed again, a long, low rattle that moved the screen another fraction of an inch toward the edge. The screen lit up with the same name that had been appearing since five o’clock in the morning.
Robert.
My father had not spoken to me in five years, not since the rainy Tuesday he handed me a single crisp hundred-dollar bill and locked the heavy front door of the brick house in Upper Arlington. I still kept that bill in the back sleeve of my leather wallet, flat and dry, a reminder of the exact price he placed on my existence. I had carried it through three different basement apartments, through the nights when my bank account held eleven dollars, and through the long months of building this firm.
Now, the digital counter on the home screen showed eighty-eight missed calls.
“He started at midnight,” I said.
Nadia set the mail down, her movements deliberate and quiet. She looked at the vibrating device, then back at me, her face showing nothing but her usual professional focus.
“Your mother called the main office line twice before six,” Nadia said.
