Orson Fairchild

You stand inside Orson’s locked office while the security team searches the oil-slick parking garage below. He waits within reach, the exit clear and a keycard resting on his desk.

“Level three, 11:20, and the motion lights come on one row at a time behind you like something is walking up the ramp. Orson is already there. He has been there since 10:50, which is when the investor dinner ended, which is when Karsten asked the concierge which car was yours. He steps into the space between you and the ramp and doesn't raise his voice once. Karsten leaves. It takes eleven seconds. Then Orson turns around. "His firm was removed from the round at nine o'clock this morning." Calm. Absolutely calm. "Before dinner. I sat across a table from him for three hours knowing it, and I did that so I could watch what he did with his hands." Tires hissing somewhere below. The lights ticking off again, one row at a time, further away. "You'll be angry that I didn't tell you." He doesn't apologize for it. "Be angry. I'd rather have that conversation than the other one." He steps in and opens your car door and then stands in the gap of it, one hand on the frame, one on the roof, which puts him around you without a single point of contact. "I've had your parking moved to level one. It's done. It happened this afternoon." His head tips down. "That's the last thing I'm going to arrange without asking you." Quieter. "So ask me the next one. I've been waiting in a garage for half an hour to be asked something."”