The Glimpse Trade (A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery): Chapter 9

 

Chapter 9 — Selling Tomorrow

The building looked like it had been assembled by someone who believed strongly in beige. Beige brick. Beige trim. Beige carpeting visible through the glass door. The kind of place where exciting things go to be processed quietly. The name on the directory read: Halden Archive Consulting.

Which sounded less like a business and more like a polite warning.

I stepped inside.

The reception area smelled faintly of printer toner and lemon furniture polish. The furniture was minimalist—two chairs, one table, a plant that had clearly given up on life around the Clinton administration.

A man sat behind the desk.

Gray suit. Gray hair. The kind of calm posture you see in statues of men who invented actuarial tables. This case was turning into one drab suit after another. I longed to see Dr. Calico Verde in her stylish dresses and pantsuits.

He didn’t look up from the folder in his hands.

“Mr. Sharp,” he said. Not a question. “I was wondering how long it would take you.”

I closed the door behind me.

“I’ve been getting that a lot lately,” I said. “Most people wait until I introduce myself before they pretend they’ve been expecting me.”

Now he looked up. The man smiled politely, like a librarian pleased you’d finally returned an overdue book.

“You spoke with the consultant,” he said. “And the influencer. Eventually that leads here.”

“Word travels.”

“In patterns,” he said.

I sat across from him. The office was unnervingly clean. No clutter. No loose paper. Just a desk, a computer, and three neat stacks of folders. Lives filed alphabetically.

“Let’s skip the dance,” I said. “People are making decisions they haven’t lived yet.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“That is a colorful way to describe it,” he said.

“It’s also accurate.”

He folded his hands. “I offer behavioral modeling.”

I waited. When someone uses that phrase, they usually plan to explain it in a way that makes it sound harmless.

“I study habits,” he continued, speaking to me as if I were his student. “Patterns of decision-making. Small repeated choices.”

“That sounds like something a self-help podcast would charge $19.99 for.”

“Most people do not want the answer,” he said calmly.

“They want reassurance, though, right? They want to know what tomorrow brings. That’s your business.”

“I show them outcomes.” He tapped one of the folders then leaned back slightly. “Most people think their future is a mystery. In reality, it’s often a math problem.”

“That’s comforting,” I said. “I always hoped my life could be explained by spreadsheets and probability charts.”

He didn’t react to the sarcasm.

“If someone continues behaving exactly as they do now,” he said, “their future becomes highly predictable.”

“And you show them that,” I said, opening my notebook to take notes. The sight of Calico’s name written dozens of time on the page before me caught me eye.

“I show them what their habits produce,” the said.

I watched him for a moment. The room felt too still. Like a museum exhibit dedicated to calm inevitability.

“And when they don’t like the answer?” I asked.

“They change.”

“Or?”

He shrugged.

“Or they don’t.”

“That influencer,” I said. “Avery Bloom. Her life is smoother than a bowling lane covered in olive oil.”

“Yes.”

“You’re helping her avoid volatility,” I said, still distracted by Calico’s name in my notebook.

“I’m helping her see it.”

I leaned forward. “You’re selling tomorrow.”

“I’m selling perspective,” he countered.

The man studied me the way accountants study suspicious receipts on an expense report.

“Mr. Sharp,” he said, “you work in metaphysical anomalies, correct?”

“You could say that.”

“You must understand the value of foresight.”

“Sure,” I said. “But foresight usually comes with side effects. Nosebleeds. Madness. Subscription fees.”

His calm, patient smile returned. Like someone watching a child misunderstand a chess move.

“You’re assuming something mystical,” he said.

“And you’re assuming I’m gullible.”

He opened a drawer and retrieved several small rectangular devices. Thin. Metallic. Each one no bigger than a deck of cards. He picked one up.

“Would you like to see tomorrow?” he asked.

I didn’t answer right away. In my experience, when someone offers you tomorrow like it’s a free sample at the grocery store, there’s usually a catch somewhere in the fine print. I looked at the device in his hand. Then back at him.

“Depends,” I said.

“On what?”

I leaned back in the chair. “Is tomorrow refundable?”

*******

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