Chapter 32 Arthur
Chapter thirty-two
Arthur
Henry isn't where he's supposed to be. That's the first problem. The clean one. The kind that usually has a rational explanation.
I check my schedule, scanning for deviations.
Nothing's been changed.
The driver hasn't checked in. That's unusual—he always confirms Henry's movements.
I text Henry directly. No answer.
It's Saturday, so he's not at school.
I call Steven, keeping my voice measured. "Where's Henry?"
"He left with Mrs. Dupree about an hour ago, sir."
With Lindsay. She's competent. Careful. She wouldn't—
I stop myself. Because competence doesn't override protocol. Safety.
"Did they say where they were going?" I keep my tone neutral, though something in my chest tightens.
"No, sir. They seemed to be in a hurry."
I call Lindsay. Straight to voicemail. I try again. Then again. I tell myself she's driving. That she's busy. That this is only an inconvenience amplified by my mood.
Still, I start making calls.
Security first. Then the driver. Then staff.
No one knows where they went.
No itinerary. No heads-up. Just confirmation that Henry left with Lindsay and did not return home.
The house feels suddenly too large. Empty.
Quinn answers on the second ring. I don't preamble.
"Where are they?"
There's a pause on the line. Not confusion. Assessment.
"I don't know," she says evenly. "Lindsay didn't inform me of her plans."
"That's not an answer," I reply. "I don't know where my son is."
"He's not missing," Quinn says. "He's with Lindsay."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "You're her head of staff. You're supposed to know where she went."
"I work for Lindsay," she corrects. "Not for you."
The words land like a challenge. A boundary drawn deliberately. She doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't apologize. She doesn't rush to reassure me.
"You two are having a disagreement," she continues. "I'm not getting in the middle of it."
I disengage before I say something permanent.
Security is working on location tracking.
Every contingency I swore I wouldn't need is activated without hesitation.
My mind runs worst-case scenarios in parallel. Exposure. Abduction. Media presence. Opportunists. I don't allow myself to imagine Henry afraid. Or alone.
I focus on logistics. That's how I survive this.
Still, something ugly coils inside me.
This isn't just about safety. It's about her deciding she didn't need to tell me.
My phone rings. Security.
"We've located Mrs. Dupree's phone signal, sir."
"Where?"
"The convention center downtown."
CAMICon.