"A funeral?" I read the words out loud, but they tasted like ash in my mouth. "Whose funeral?"
"Nobody died," Desi said immediately. She grabbed the note from my hand, scanning it as if I’d read it wrong. "I checked the group chat. I checked the obits. Nobody we know is dead. His grandma died three years ago. His dog is fine. Who the hell died?"
"Maybe he’s being metaphorical," Greg rumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Maybe... maybe hope died."
"Shut up, Greg, you’re bringing down the property value," I snapped, but my brain was spinning. I’m a planner. I analyze data sets. And this data point was an outlier. An impossibility.
"It’s an excuse," Desi scoffed, crumpling the napkin. "He’s probably just hungover and doesn't want to deal with your lecture about his 401k."
"No," I said. "Look at the ink."
Desi uncrumpled the napkin. The ink wasn't ballpoint. It was smeared. Runny. Like it had been written in the rain.
"It’s storming outside," I noted.
"It’s always storming outside," Greg sighed.
"No," I said, standing up. My chair scraped loudly against the floor. "I mean, look at the Bartender."
We all turned to the bar. The Bartender was wiping down a glass, staring at nothing. But for the first time in the history of The Cortex Club, something was wrong with their uniform.
There was mud on their shoes.
Thick, red clay. Fresh wet mud.
"They never leave the bar," I whispered. My throat felt tight. "They can't leave the bar. The door only opens in, never out. Where did they get mud on their shoes?"
That’s when the tremor hit.
It wasn't an earthquake. Earthquakes rattle the glasses; they shake the lights. This came from underneath. It felt like the building itself shivered. A low, nauseating frequency that vibrated in my teeth.
The neon sign in the window—OPEN in buzzing blue—flickered and died.
"Whoa," Desi grabbed the edge of the table. "Okay. That wasn't a vibe. That was a structural failure."
"The foundation is compromising," I said, my voice rising an octave. I looked at the ceiling. A fine dust of plaster drifted down onto my perfect suit jacket. "The structural integrity of this establishment is tied to the stability of the Patron. If Adam isn't here..."
"He’s at a funeral," Desi insisted, though she looked terrified. "He said so!"
"Desi," I said, grabbing her wrist. "Think. Who would Adam go to a funeral for? He hates funerals. He hates suits. He avoids grief like it’s a contagious disease. He wouldn't go unless..."
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.