Page 92 of Mad Rivals
“Hey,” I answer.
“How do you know about the warehouse?” he demands. Nohey, son, or other similar salutation.
“I ran into Mick last night when I was out in the West Loop,” I lie. If he can hide things, so can I.
“Hm,” he grunts.
“So…how do I get in to unload all these tiles?”
“I thought you were in San Diego.”
“I was. I have an SCS meeting on Monday, so I’m back for a few days.” And, you know, I was checking out the warehouses.
It’s a solid enough excuse that he buys it.
“Mick is driving me to a meeting of my own this morning. We won’t be by to let you in until this afternoon at the earliest. Take your tiles and clear out.”
Take your tiles and clear out?
Nah. I’ll come up with some other way to get in.
“I can wait,” I say smoothly.
I walk near the door and find a scanner that looks to be a facial recognition system of some kind.
I give it a try, though I highly doubt I’m in the system since my dad appears to be trying to keep me out.
But that’s the question.
Whywould he be keeping me out?
If it’s just a warehouse storing flooring as he said it is…why would he care if I went into it?
My father sighs on the other end of the line.
“Why don’t you want me in there?” I ask quietly. I glance up and lock eyes with Kennedy, who looks like she’s waiting on the edge of her seat for the answer.
So am I.
“Because we can’t just accept whatever load you have, Madden. That’s not how it works. We need someone there to take stock of what you have, inventory it, and put it in the right aisle.”
I grit my teeth together. I guess that makes good enough sense. Still, it feels like there’s some reason he’s keeping me out, and I wish I would’ve approached this differently. Maybe if I would’ve told him I needed some flooring for a project, I could’ve gotten in that way.
Somehow I doubt it.
So how do I get access to this place?
The two of us load back into my car, and we head back to my place. The answer doesn’t hit me until I get back home and start unloading the dishwasher, where I see all of the dishes my brother used while he was staying here.
“That’s it!” I say, snapping my fingers.
Kennedy is at the kitchen table, and she looks confused at my outburst. “What’s it?”
“Deepfake!” I feel like this could actually work, and that sentiment is clear in my enthusiasm.
“Huh?”
“My brother—when he was here, he said he got into some trouble. Some pictures were taken of him that made it look a certain way, but he said his publicist was going to try to cover it with a deepfake.”
