She hated herself for having read it and done nothing.
“I should have escalated it.”
Daniel shook his head.
“This isn’t about you.”
“That doesn’t mean I handled it well.”
Daniel stood.
“I’m not looking for anyone to blame this morning.”
“Then what are you looking for?”
“The door.”
Margaret closed her eyes briefly.
When she opened them, Daniel had picked up his resignation envelope again.
He slid it toward her.
“My daughter needs me.”
That was all.
He spent twelve minutes clearing his desk.
He knew the exact time because he watched the clock without meaning to.
A photograph of Lily at Cannon Beach when she was four, standing ankle-deep in cold Pacific water with a missing front tooth and a purple bucket upside down beside her.
A ceramic mug she had made him during a summer art program.
DAD, written unevenly beneath a green dinosaur.
A framed photograph of Claire that he had kept half hidden behind his monitor after she died because looking at it during meetings hurt too much.
Two notebooks.
A phone charger.
Three pens.
A grocery list from three Saturdays earlier.
Eggs.
Yogurt.
Coffee.
Dish soap.
Lily’s apple juice, no pulp.
He stared at that final line longer than he should have.
Then placed the list in the box too.
Brendan Walsh appeared at the edge of the cubicle holding coffee.
Brendan had worked beside Daniel for almost nine years.
They had survived two major product failures, four reorganizations, a security incident, and one disastrous corporate retreat involving a ropes course that neither of them ever spoke about.
“Hey.”
Daniel kept packing.
Brendan lowered his voice.
“Is it true?”
“Yes.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
Brendan stared at the box.
“What the hell happened?”
Daniel unplugged his personal phone cable.
“Nothing new.”
“Daniel.”
“The Morrison account is clean through the next milestone.”
“I don’t care about Morrison.”
“Nathan knows everything.”
“Stop.”
Daniel looked at him.
Brendan’s face had changed.
“Is it Lily?”
Daniel paused.
The office noise continued around them.
Phones.
Keyboards.
A printer.
Someone laughing three rows over.
“Yeah.”
“How bad?”
Daniel looked toward the photograph in the box.
“It’s always been Lily.”
Brendan swallowed.
“Can I do anything?”
Daniel thought.
“No.”
Then:
“Actually, yes.”
“Name it.”
“Don’t let Nathan take that Morrison presentation alone.”
Brendan laughed despite himself.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“So I’ve been told.”
They hugged awkwardly.
Daniel was not a hugging-at-work person.
Neither was Brendan.
That made it worse.
And better.
By the time Daniel reached the elevator, word had begun moving through the floor.
People looked up.
Some waved.
Some stared.
No one stopped him.
He appreciated that.
The elevator doors closed.
Daniel watched the numbers descend.
Fourteen.
Thirteen.
Twelve.
Eleven.
He had spent twelve years learning this building.
The fastest elevator was number three before nine thirty.
The espresso machine on the third floor was better than the one near the executive suites.
Conference room 12C had a thermostat that insisted twenty-three degrees meant nineteen.
The east-side printer jammed almost every Monday.
The best view of Portland was not from the executive boardroom.
It was from the stairwell landing between floors nine and ten at approximately eight fifteen in the morning, before sunlight hit the neighboring tower and turned the glass into a mirror.
Daniel had never told anyone that.
He had never loved Arcturus.
But he knew it intimately.
Sometimes that was close enough.
The lobby was busy when he stepped out.
Employees scanned badges.
A courier delivered boxes.