Page 5 of Holiday Interference
Not that I owe him one. I’ve had harder cases than a rookie with a face made for brooding and the social grace of a brick.
But there’s something about the way he moved, the way he held himself like the whole night was a test he already knew he wouldn’t pass.
It tugs at me.
And I don’t like being tugged.
“Jules,” I say into my earpiece as I round the far end of the tree. “Update me.”
“DOT just issued an advisory,” she says. “Snowfall increasing. Black ice likely. Valet’s reporting some vehicles skidding.”
My heels stop clicking. “How bad?”
“They’re debating closing Viper Row. Full shut-down.”
I glance toward the tall windows lining the front of The Pit. What was festive flurries an hour ago now looks like the city’s being eaten by a snow beast.
Fat flakes swarm the streetlamps. The glass is fogged halfway up from the temperature drop. We never take it seriously downhere—not until there’s twelve car pileups on I-75 and every loaf of bread in the metro area’s been looted from the shelves.
“I want valet to start moving cars to the east ramp,” I say. “Get rideshare routes flagged. Notify security we might push early exit.”
“Copy.”
I pivot to move, but a blur of motion near the coat check catches my eye.
It’s Cal.
He’s not posing anymore. He’s helping a donor into her fur-lined coat—someone’s grandmother, clearly, based on the way she pats his chest like it’s her job to check for body fat. He endures it with the kind of quiet grace that makes something behind my sternum shift sideways.
One of the volunteer staff approaches him with an armful of umbrellas, and he doesn’t hesitate—just takes half, nods toward the front, and disappears into the swirl of pre-exit chaos without waiting for instructions.
No one asked him to help.
And he didn’t do it for the cameras.
The thought lands deeper than it should.
I press two fingers to my temple. No time for distraction. The room is already thinning—guests gathering coats, snapping final selfies, chattering nervously about roads and weather apps.
A few of the board members are clustered near the doors, and I move to intercept before they can derail the exit plan.
“Everything’s under control,” I tell them, layering calm over my voice like lacquer. “We’ve activated the exit plan. Valet and rideshare zones are staged, and we’re coordinating with security now to expedite.”
They nod, satisfied with my answer—or too cold to argue.
I exhale through my nose and glance over the room one more time.
That’s when the lights flicker.
Just a flicker—barely a blink—but the crowd feels it. I feel it. Every body in the room stills like prey scenting the air.
Then the string lights above the bar go out.
“Generator status?” I whisper into the mic.
“Green light,” Jules says, voice tighter than before. “But we may have just hit a grid surge.”
Of course we did.
