Chapter 4
GUNTHER
Numbers make sense.
That's the thing about spreadsheets. They don't lie. They don't wear fake tattoos or pretend to be someone they're not. They're honest in a way people rarely manage.
The quarterly report on my screen flashes, watching projected revenue climb in neat, predictable increments. Fishborn Financial has had a good year. Colum's aggressive expansion into community development projects is paying off. The numbers prove it.
My phone turns on.
Colum: Conference room. Five minutes. Bring the plaza files.
I gather the relevant documents, lease agreements, renovation budgets, tenant applications, and head down the hall.
The conference room smells like expensive coffee and Colum's latest impulse purchase: a diffuser pumping out something called Executive Clarity. It smells like eucalyptus and expensive mall counter perfume.
"Gunther!" Colum spreads his arms wide like I've returned from war instead of walking twenty feet. "My favorite orc with a calculator."
"I prefer financial analyst."
"Boring. Sit."
I sit.
He slides a folder across the table. "Poplar Springs Plaza.
Final tenant roster. Some tenants are already in there, so treat them with extra kindness.
I need you to coordinate move-ins, make sure renovations stay on schedule, and generally be the boring adult who keeps this project from exploding. "
"Flattering."
"It's a compliment. You're good at boring." He grins. "Also, I'm putting you in charge of the welcome event. Something tasteful. Ribbon cutting. Maybe balloons."
"I hate balloons."
"Everyone loves balloons."
"They're unpredictable. They pop."
"Gunther. You're overthinking balloons."
I flip open the folder. Twelve storefronts, all leased. A bakery. A bookstore. A yoga studio that promises "mindful movement for modern bodies." And—
"Sparkle Beauty?"
"Pop-up vendor gone permanent. Makeup, skincare, that kind of thing." Colum taps the page. "Owner's name is Cecie Newman. Leased here months ago. References check out. She's got a solid customer base from the market circuit.I want to keep her happy."
The name means nothing.
I turn the page, scanning the application. No photo. Just a business plan that's surprisingly thorough for someone who used to sell lipstick out of a folding table.
"When does she move in?"
"Next week. She's got the unit next to the yoga place. Good foot traffic." Colum leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "You should meet her. Get a feel for what she needs. Make sure the buildout goes smoothly."
"That's not my job."
"It is now."
I X off the folder. "Why?"
"Because you're good with people."
"I'm really not."
"Fine. You're patient with people. And this plaza is my baby. I need someone who won't screw it up." He points at me. "That's you."
"Flattery and coercion. Your management style needs work."
"My management style got you promoted twice."
He's not wrong.
I take the folder.
The plaza rests on the edge of Poplar Springs' downtown district, close enough to foot traffic but far enough from the main strip to feel like a hidden gem. Fishborn Financials occupies the first storefront, and I normally park in the back.
Colum bought it two years ago when it was still a half-abandoned strip mall with a failed pizza chain, the occasional pop-up shop, and a shuttered hardware store.
Now it's all fresh paint and wide windows, bright awnings and planters that will probably hold flowers once someone remembers to plant them.
I step to the new addition, marble with bronze accents that Colum insisted would give the space gravitas, and walk the perimeter with a clipboard.
Routine. Methodical. Exactly how I like it.
The bakery's already open, windows fogged with warmth. I can smell bread from here.
The bookstore has boxes stacked inside, visible through the glass. Someone's arranged them in neat rows. Alphabetical, probably.
Good.
The yoga studio's empty but pristine. Mirrors installed. Bamboo floors gleaming.
And then there's the corner unit.
Sparkle Beauty in cheerful cursive above the door.
The business opened in it's permanent spot next to Fishborn Financial, but I've yet to meet the owner, since I park on the side of the building.
The new sign's not installed yet as it leans against the window, waiting for someone with a ladder and better upper-body strength than me.
I peer through the glass.
Inside, it's chaos. Paint cans, drop cloths, a ladder lying sideways like it gave up. But there's organization underneath the mess. Shelving units already assembled. A counter half-painted in soft pink. Product displays sketched on butcher paper taped to the walls.
Someone knows what they're doing.
I check my notes. Cecie Newman. Temporarily closed the shop for the renovations. Needs electrical inspection before opening.
I make a note to follow up with the contractor.
A cargo box sits near the door, lid half-open. There's a post-it stuck to the side, handwriting looping and confident:
Glitter inventory, DO NOT OPEN unless you want to sparkle for a week.
Something about the handwriting— No. That's ridiculous.
I've seen a thousand post-its. A thousand hurried notes scrawled by a thousand different people. There's no reason this one should feel familiar.
I turn away.
The office is quiet when I return. Most of the team's already left for the day, desks dark and keyboards silent.
I settle at my desk and pull up the plaza budget. Everything's on track. Renovations are under budget by three percent. Tenant move-ins scheduled without conflicts. The welcome event planned for the end of the month.
Efficient. Orderly. Exactly as it should be.
Clarence—my pocket calculator, screen cracked but functional—sits next to my keyboard. I run a few quick calculations, double-checking the numbers even though I know they're correct.
You're stalling.
I am.
Because every time I close my eyes, I see that post-it.
Looping handwriting. Confident. A little messy around the edges, like someone wrote it while balancing three other things.
Glitter inventory.
I yank out my phone and scroll to the one photo I kept from that night.
It's stupid. I know it's stupid.
But I zoom in anyway, looking for, what? A sign? Proof that the woman I spent one perfect night with somehow exists in the same small orbit as me?
The photo's too blurry. Taken by someone at the party who thought drunk strangers were worth documenting. She's laughing, head back. I'm looking at her like she's the only person in the room.
Sis.
That's what she called herself when I asked. Voice light, teasing, like she was daring me to push.
I didn't.
I should have.
I turn off the photo and set the phone facedown on my desk.
"You're brooding."
I look up.
Colum leans against the doorway, tie loosened, jacket slung over one shoulder. He looks like someone who just closed a deal and is now deciding whether to celebrate with whiskey or karaoke.
Knowing Colum, probably both.
"I'm working."
"You're staring at a blank screen and frowning. That's brooding." He steps inside, drops into the chair across from me. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Gunther. I've known you for six years. You get a specific wrinkle between your eyebrows when you're worried. It's there right now."
I resist the urge to touch my forehead. "The plaza's fine."
"I didn't ask about the plaza."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because you've been weird since that party." He tilts his head, studying me. "The one where you dressed up like a bad romance novel cover and disappeared with a woman whose name you don't know."
"I wasn't—"
"You wore a leather jacket and henna tattoos, Gunther. You were exactly that."
I don't have a good argument.
Colum sighs. "Look. I'm glad you let loose. You needed it. But if you're going to mope about Mystery Woman, at least tell me so I can help."
"There's nothing to help with."
"Did you try finding her?"
"How? I don't know her name. Don't know where she lives. Don't even know if she remembers me."
"You could ask around. Someone at the party might know."
"I already did. Nobody remembers her."
Which is true. I spent two weeks casually asking anyone who'd been at Colum's celebration if they knew a woman who went by "Sis" or "Sis." Every lead went nowhere.
It's like she vanished.
Colum watches me for a long moment. Then he stands, claps me on the shoulder. "You'll find her. Or you won't. Either way, life goes on."
"Inspiring."
"I'm a giver." He heads for the door, pauses. "By the way. Plaza walk-through tomorrow morning. Ten AM. I want you there."
"I was just there."
"Great. Then you'll have notes."
He leaves before I can argue.
I turn back to my computer, pull up the tenant files again.
Cecie Newman.
The name sits there, ordinary and unremarkable.
But that handwriting—
I shake my head.
You're imagining things.