Chapter 40 Arthur
Chapter forty
Arthur
My phone is still in airplane mode when the car pulls onto the tarmac, but the tension is already there—coiled, waiting.
Steven is standing beside the vehicle instead of inside it, which tells me something went wrong before he even opens his mouth.
"Henry went missing." No preamble. No cushioning.
I stop mid-stride.
Missing doesn't mean long. It doesn't mean danger—not necessarily.
But it means I wasn't here.
It means my son needed something and I was an ocean away thinking I could compartmentalize my life the way I do my business.
"Lindsay found him," Steven adds quickly.
That lands differently. Not relief. Not yet. Something sharper. More complicated.
The details come in pieces as the car starts moving. Henry went to her old apartment. Walked there. Confident. Determined. Like a child who believes his effort can solve adult problems.
Lindsay didn't panic publicly. She didn't call the media. She didn't wait for permission.
She found him. She stayed calm. She brought him home.
I picture it too easily. Her kneeling in front of him. Her steady hands. The way Henry always softens when she talks to him like he matters—not like he's something to manage.
"And before you ask," Steven says, glancing at me, "she didn't overstep."
I hadn't realized I was about to ask. That realization stings more than it should.
The silence stretches. I replay the last words Lindsay said before she left. "I won't be a bother for you anymore." The memory tastes bitter now.
"She didn't have to help," Steven says. "She chose to."
I close my eyes briefly.
"I need to find her," I say. The sentence feels inadequate, but it's the truest thing I've said in days. "I need to apologize. Properly."
Steven nods, like he's been waiting for this. "I figured," he says.
"There's one place she'd go today," Steven continues.
I straighten. "Where?"
"CAMICon."
The word feels absurd on my tongue. Loud. Chaotic. The opposite of everything I default to when I want order restored. Of course that's where she'd be. Of course she wouldn't be hiding quietly somewhere waiting for me to figure this out.
I nod slowly. Then: "We're going."
"And what about Henry?"
"He'll come, too."
"Very good, sir."
Steven hesitates. Then he looks me up and down—tailored suit, polished shoes, armor I've worn my entire adult life.
"You can't go like that," he says.
I frown. "Like what?"
"In a dress suit. Like you're here to negotiate," Steven replies.
He opens the trunk instead of answering. Inside is a garment bag. And next to it—disturbingly—fabric that is bright, impractical, and unmistakably costume-adjacent.
"You're joking," I say.
Steven smiles for the first time since I landed. "I never joke about logistics."
I stare at the contents. This is ridiculous. This is humiliating. This is completely out of my control.
"If this is what it takes," I say slowly, "then let's do it."
Steven hands me the bag.
And for the first time in my life, I choose chaos.