The Glimpse Trade (A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery): Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Influencer

My mild flirtation (if that’s what it could be called) had my brain reeling. Romantic entanglements Being a metaphysical detective isn’t the glamorous life of sex and violence I imagined it would be. The job came to me the way most jobs do, I suppose. I answered an ad. Unemployed after quitting the police force, money was tight. Hope even more so. When the season makes its awkward transition from winter to spring, my thoughts make their own tenuous shift toward the positive. I start thinking there could be more to life than helping some poor schlub figure out why his subconscious is having lunch without him. Dr. Calico Verde could be that something more. Someone more.

When the job came my way, I assumed my evenings would be spent wrestling sentient armoires or interrogating clocks that tick in conditional tense. The truth is less cinematic. Most days I sit in an office that smells faintly of dust and anticipation, waiting for someone to tell me the universe has begun behaving improperly again. Spoiler alert: the universe is always up to something.

The trouble with metaphysics is that it rarely announces itself. It slips. It stutters. It misfiles a Tuesday. It tempts a man to look at what his life might have been had he chosen differently. It nudges the hinge of reality just enough that the door opens a little too easily. TV detectives solve murders and find missing persons. As a metaphysical detective, I solve almosts and find the days people decided not to live.

That’s where the real trouble lives — in the negative space between intention and outcome. In the draft version of a life someone wishes they’d submitted instead. So, thinking about the mesmerizing eyes and soft smile of a certain psychiatrist has to be set aside, even if she is the reason I’m on my next case.

*

Spring sunlight is dishonest because it makes everything look survivable.

I watched Avery Bloom from across the street at a café that specialized in beverages described as experiential. The chalkboard out front listed something called a Reflective Matcha. I ordered black coffee out of principle and mild rebellion.

Avery Bloom, a brunette in her late twenties, did not look like someone grieving invisible catastrophes. She appeared controlled, structured. Calico hooked me up with Avery’s social media platforms. Each of her posts suggested vitality without committing to it. She wore a workout—a “fit” she called it—that looked more expensive than all of my crappy suits put together.

She sat by the window where the light could do most of the work. A small tripod rested on the table. Phone angled just so. A ceramic mug positioned handle-forward. On it, the phrase Curate Your Becoming was etched. A notebook lay open, though she wasn’t writing in it. The page existed for implication. She spoke softly into the camera.

“Spring is about renewal,” she said, smiling in a way that implied she’d rehearsed sincerity without dulling it. “It’s about choosing who you’re becoming. And I am choosing this delicious Reflective Matcha from Taste It or Leave Tea House.”

Curate your becoming.

I had the sudden, unhelpful urge to apologize to my younger self for becoming the kind of person whose job it is to observe this. She finished recording, reviewed the clip, adjusted the angle, recorded again. The second take was indistinguishable from the first. I suspected there had been a micro-expression she didn’t like. A half-second of insufficient radiance.

Her assistant—early twenties, perpetually caffeinated—hovered nearby with a tablet.

“Engagement’s steady,” the assistant said quietly.

“Steady is safe,” Avery replied.

Safe. That word again.

I’ve spent enough time around risk assessment to know what steady looks like on a graph. It looks good until it doesn’t. Markets plateau before they fall. Heart rates flatten before alarms sound. I’d asked Calico for public metrics before coming here. Avery Bloom’s engagement chart was immaculate. Minor dips, modest spikes, but nothing resembling volatility. No backlash events. No public missteps. No messy viral moments. No risk of being cancelled, as the kids say.

Statistically improbable.

Influencers trade in exposure. Exposure invites weather. Weather creates fluctuation. Avery Bloom’s life had no weather. She pivoted the tripod and began a live Q&A.

“Ask me anything,” she said, smiling.

Questions scrolled past. Most harmless. Some probing without confronting.

How do you deal with criticism?

She laughed lightly. “I welcome it. Growth requires discomfort.”

She answered before the comment fully appeared. Not after reading it. Before. A half-second too early. I leaned back in my chair. Maybe she was fast. Maybe she was trained. Maybe she was tired of pretending surprise. But then another question flickered up.

Are you worried about burnout?

She paused.

Just long enough to appear reflective.

“I’ve learned not to step into days that don’t align,” she said.

Not step into days. There it was again. The language of selection. Opting out. Curation not just of content, but of chronology. Her assistant refreshed the analytics screen. I caught the faintest crease in Avery’s expression.

“Anything?” she asked.

The assistant hesitated. “Engagement’s… dipping.”

Avery blinked. “Dipping how?”

“Just a few points. No negative comments. Just… drop-off.”

I watched her posture adjust, almost imperceptibly. Her smile recalibrated. Her tone softened. She compensated before the threat materialized. A life this smooth should be magnetic. Instead, something about it felt laminated. You can’t polish a day into permanence. You can’t sand down every edge and expect traction.

Across the street, tulips leaned into the sun like they had no idea frost still existed. Avery Bloom ended the live.

“Let’s recalibrate,” she told her assistant.

Recalibrate.

I finished my coffee.

Spring promises bloom. But blooms that never weather anything don’t last long. And somewhere between her immaculate graph and her vanishing engagement, I began to suspect that Avery Bloom wasn’t just curating her becoming.

She was declining it.

*******

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