The Glimpse Trade (A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery): Chapter 14

 

Chapter 14 — The Glitch

Influencers don’t usually call private investigators. They call lawyers. Or brand managers. Or whatever species of digital priest translates panic into engagement metrics. So, when Avery Bloom left a message on my office phone at 6:12 a.m., it told me three things. First, something had gone wrong. Second, nobody in her ecosystem knew how to monetize it yet. Third, I needed to get up anyway and pee.

I called her back. She answered on the first ring.

“You talked to him,” she said. “The Archivist.”

Silence.

Then: “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Usually people say thank you before the scolding.”

“You don’t understand how delicate this process is.”

“That word again,” I said. “Delicate. Everyone in this story is either delicate or fragile. I’m starting to feel like I wandered into a China shop and I’m the bull.

“You’re interfering.”

“I’m observing.”

“That’s worse.”

“Depends who’s running the experiment.”

She exhaled hard. For someone whose entire career was based on calm, optimized emotional presence, Avery sounded like a woman trying not to throw her phone into a lake.

“Something’s happening,” she said.

“Define something.”

“I recorded a video yesterday.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“You don’t like, do you Mr. Sharp?” Her voice lacked any emotion. She just wanted to confirm something.

“More like I don’t understand,” I said, lighting a cigarette while sitting up in bed. “But about this video.”

“It’s not there.”

“Did you delete it?”

“No.”

“Did your assistant?”

“No.”

“Did the internet suddenly decide to protect humanity from motivational content?”

“See. You don’t like me. You mock me.” That time her voice was tinged with contempt.

“Like I said, sweetheart, I don’t understand what you do. But who am I to judge. Nobody understands what the hell I do, either. Least of all me.”

I heard take a breath over the phone. She spoke slowly now. Like someone describing a car accident they weren’t ready to look at yet.

“I remember filming it,” she said. “I remember the lighting. I remember the caption. I remember saying the words.”

“What words?”

“About conflict. About choosing not to rehearse arguments anymore.”

I leaned back in my chair. “And?”

“And the file doesn’t exist.”

“No backup No auto-save?”

“No.”

“Maybe you imagined it.”

She signed in frustration. “I know I uploaded it. Like you said, it’s my job.”

“Did anyone see it?” I asked.

Another pause.

“Yes. My audience is commenting about it.”

That got my attention. “That’s impressive.”

“They’re referencing specific lines.”

“Lines from a video that doesn’t exist,” I said. Welcome to metaphysics, sweetheart.” I said.

“This isn’t metaphysics,” she snapped. “And stop calling me sweetheart.

I got out of bed and walked to the window. The dumpster in the alley was still doing its best impression of an inanimate object determined in its purpose. But to me it looked lonely and adrift. Maybe I was projecting.

“Send me the comments,” I said.

She did. Within seconds my phone lit up. Dozens of posts. Hundreds. Thousands. Followers quoting phrases. Reacting to moments. Talking about how powerful the message had been. Countless OMGs and emojis. More than should exist in the universe.

One woman wrote: That part where you said you can’t rehearse pain forever? I felt that.

Another said: I watched this three times last night.

Another: This one hit different.

I scrolled and scrolled and scrolled. Just when I thought the comments ended more loaded. I was the Sisyphus of scrolling. Every single one describing a video that had never been posted. I called Avery back.

“They remember it,” I said.

“Yes.”

“You remember it.”

“Yes.”

“But the recording doesn’t exist.”

“Yes.”

“And the platform logs?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you run the tape again yesterday?”

Silence.

Then: “…maybe.”

“How many times this week?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“It is if reality’s starting to stutter.”

“Drama much?”

I thought about the Archivist’s chalkboard. Probability fields. Variance. Fragility.

“Drama?” I said. “That’s math, sweetheart. You’re accumulating debt.”

“What?”

“Volatility.”

“That’s not how he explained it.”

“Of course it is.

“No, he said the variance redistributes.”

“Exactly.”

“But I declined the day.” Her voice was whiny for the first time in our conversation.

“That doesn’t mean the system forgot it.”

“Then where did the video go?” she wondered aloud.

I looked back at the comments. Thousands of people describing the same thing. Watching something that never happened.

“Let me ask you something,” I said. “Did you decline the argument with Benedict yesterday?”

“…yes.”

“And the brand meeting Tuesday?”

“Yes.”

“And the call with your mother?”

Her voice dropped. “Yes.”

“How many days have you declined this month?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not an answer, Avery.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

I rubbed my temple.

“You’ve been smoothing the line,” I said. “The volatility curve.”

“You’re speaking nonsense.”

“And that’s my job,” I said.

Another long silence. Then Avery said something that made the back of my neck tighten.

“My audience says they’ve seen the video before.”

“Before when?”

“Before yesterday.”

“Like a repost?”

“No.”

“Like déjà vu.”

That word sat there. Ugly and familiar.

“You’re running the tape too many times,” I said.

“That’s not possible.”

“Sure it is.”

“The Archivist said the models were stable.” Her voice hit that whiny note again. “He said nothing collapses.”

I said, “He said volatility redistributes.”

Another pause. Smaller this time. Fear had entered the chat.

“What are you saying?” she asked.

“I’m saying when you decline enough days,” I said, “the future starts borrowing from the present.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are people remembering a video that doesn’t exist?”

No answer. Outside my office window, the alley looked normal. Which was always the first warning sign.

“Avery,” I said. “You’re not just declining outcomes anymore. The system’s starting to correct.”

“What? How?”

I watched a pigeon land on the dumpster lid like it had an appointment. Then I said the only honest thing left. And somewhere out there in the probability field the ledger was starting to balance.

“I don’t know yet. But I know this.”

“What?”

“You’re accumulating debt, doll.”

After a long pause she said, “That’s worse than calling me sweetheart.”

*******

My new comedic sci-fi novel, Someone Else's Book Club, is available on my website or through Amazon!