The Glimpse Trade (A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery): Chapter 6

 

Chapter 6 — Appointments, Consultations, and Sandwiches

The number on the scrap of paper didn’t belong to a therapist. It didn’t belong to a lawyer either. Lawyers announce themselves like brass bands. This place tried to sound like a secret code whispered into a tin can with string.

The office sat on the twelfth floor of a glass building that looked expensive in a way that made you instinctively check your credit score before walking inside. The directory in the lobby listed companies with names that sounded like verbs pretending to be nouns.

Synergy Holdings. Forward Capital. FutureCraft Advisory.

The name I was looking for was smaller:

Harland Strategic Consulting.

That word again. Strategic. People who use that word usually mean someone else will absorb the consequences.

The receptionist had the posture of someone who’d taken a seminar on posture. She smiled like the smile had been leased.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” I said.

“I’m sorry but Mr. Harland is appointment only.”

“Nothing about this week works,” I said. “But here we are.”

She stared at me for a moment like she was trying to decide if I was a problem or a piece of furniture. Eventually she picked up the phone. A minute later she pointed me toward an office with a door that cost more than my first car. Inside sat a man who looked like the human embodiment of a spreadsheet. Gray suit. Gray tie. Gray expression. The kind of face that believed numbers were more trustworthy than people.

“Mr. Sharp,” he said without standing.

We hadn’t met before. That was interesting. I sat down anyway.

“Mr. Harland,” I said.

“I understand you're asking questions about one of my clients.”

“I’m asking questions about a phone number,” I said. “It happens to belong to you.”

His hands folded together like two polite conspirators.

“I provide financial consultation,” he said. “Nothing more.”

“That sounds riveting.”

“Not particularly.”

“That’s how you know it’s working.”

He studied me.

“You’re investigating Ms. Avery Bloom.”

The way he said her name made it sound like a line item.

“Influencers,” he continued, “operate in volatile markets.”

“That what we’re calling the internet now?”

“It behaves like one.”

He stood and walked to the window. The city—or at least the part pretending to be the city—spread out below us like a graph someone had forgotten to label.

“My clients,” he said, “pay me to manage risk.”

“Risk of what?”

“Collapse.”

He said it casually, like someone mentioning the weather.

“Reputation collapse. Brand collapse. Engagement collapse. One bad moment can erase years of positioning.”

“So, you give advice.”

“Yes.”

“Life coaching for people who sell empty platitudes and face peels.”

He ignored that.

“I advise stability,” he said.

“Stability,” I repeated.

“Consistency. Predictability. Controlled narrative.”

I leaned back, hands resting on my crossed legs. When you give you look relaxed, the person you’re talking with will relax. Calico taught me that. I wasn’t relaxed, though. This guy’s who aura rubbed me the wrong way, like a dry shave with a dull razor.

“Avery’s assistant mentioned something interesting,” I said. “Or maybe it’s nothing but it was interesting to me. And that’s saying a lot. I once worked a case involving a man who sold metasandwiches.”

“Metasandwiches?”

“Sandwiches that examine the nature of sandwiches.”

His eyes shifted half an inch. Small movements tell you big things.

“Consultations,” I said. “Before important days.”

“That’s normal.”

“Not when the days haven’t happened yet.”

For the first time, his expression changed. Not much. Just a flicker. A market tremor.

“You’re misunderstanding the service,” he said.

“Then explain it.”

He walked back to the desk and sat down.

“Modern visibility creates exposure,” he said. “Exposure creates volatility.”

“You’ve said that word twice now.”

“It’s the correct word.”

“Funny thing about volatility,” I said. “You usually eliminate it by telling the truth.”

He shook his head slightly.

“You don’t eliminate volatility.” His voice had the calm confidence of someone explaining gravity. “You hedge it.”

The room got quiet. That kind of quiet that sits in your lap and waits to see what you’ll do next.

“Let me ask you something,” I said.

“Go ahead.”

“If someone wanted to remove… undesirable outcomes from their life.”

“I don’t deal in hypotheticals.”

“That’s exactly what you deal in.”

He smiled the smile of someone who believed they had already won an argument that hadn’t happened yet.

“You’re implying something extraordinary,” he said.

“I’m implying something impossible.”

“Yes.”

“And yet,” I said, “your client, Avery Bloom, schedules consultations before days that never seem to go badly.”

He said nothing. Which was an answer. I stood up.

“You should be careful, Mr. Sharp,” he said.

“Why’s that?”

“Markets punish people who misunderstand them.” He said it not as a warning, but a fact.

I reached the door.

“You have a nice day, Mr. Harland. I’m going to grab a sandwich.”

 

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