“Hi, Dad,” I said quietly. “I came to get my things, like I promised.”
The glass of orange juice slipped from my mother’s fingers, exploding on the walkway. Brad’s phone hit the grass. Richard Sterling’s eyebrows rose incrementally—the only sign of surprise from a man who’d seen everything.
“Ar… Arthur?” Dad stammered, his face draining of color like someone had opened a tap. “What… what is this? Did you steal this car? Are you… are you driving for someone? Where’s your boss? Who did you drive here?”
He was looking around frantically, searching for the real owner, the person of actual importance. The idea that I might own this car, that I might be that person, was so far outside his worldview that his brain simply couldn’t process it.
I didn’t answer him. Instead, I walked past him—close enough that he could smell my cologne, probably recognizing it as the same brand he wore but couldn’t quite place why mine smelled better (it was the vintage edition, $800 a bottle)—and approached Richard Sterling.
Sterling straightened, and a small, knowing smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Hello, Mr. Chairman,” Sterling said clearly, with a small bow of his head. “I brought the termination papers, as you requested. Everything is in order.”
The world stopped.
“Mr… Mr. Chairman?” My father’s voice cracked. “Sterling, what are you talking about? That’s Arthur. He… he cleans the toilets on the third floor. He’s a janitor. He’s… he’s nobody.”
