“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
“So, guess what.”
“I am right in between classes—” he starts.
“Henley is dead,” I cut in. “He was killed in an elevator crash. It snapped his neck. Last night.”
“What?” says Ben. “What the fuck?”
“Look, you can read all about it in the Post, evidently. Would you mind telling the girls?”
“They really liked Henley,” says Ben. “They’ll be devastated. So soon after your father? And so sudden? You must be reeling.”
“I am reeling,” I say. “So be gentle with the girls but tell them the truth. If they have any questions, tell them they can call me, but obviously I am busy putting everything in order. Can you take care of them?”
“I am so sorry,” he says. “I can’t even believe this. I am so sorry you are all alone with this.”
“Anyway, now you know. I’ll call the girls tonight. I promise.”
“They have seen a lot of death lately,” says Ben. “So have you. Jesus.”
“I’ve gotta go, dude,” I say. I hang up.
I spend the rest of the morning alone in my office trying to catch up, working on everything I’ve been putting off. I get my notes in order for the Playqueen meeting and go over the P&Ls for the various divisions in the next quarter. I read a bunch of dumb memos about upcoming parties and company events, which for some reason will still be happening, even though my father will not be able to attend them. For a moment, I wonder who will take his place with respect to making speeches and rousing the troops. I realize that this person will now be me.
Self-deprecation has never been my strong suit. I make a note to read Grant’s memoirs again. I must become someone who inspires people. Grant never wanted to be a general. He just wanted to be a math professor. I, too, can become a general if I must.
As I work, I try very hard not to think about Henley. I try very hard not to remember all the trouble he had gotten into over the years, all the random women running after him who I had to chase away with stern conversations, with cash, with NDAs.
I think about the time he was arrested in an East Village McDonald’s for public indecency. He had taken so much acid that he had his pants off in order to soothingly masturbate himself into a stupor in one of the booths. After a generous contribution to the Emerald Society, he was let go and his record was expunged. He promised to keep it to ketamine, coke, and DMT after that.
“I’m too fun for acid,” he lamented. “Acid is too smooth.”
I try very hard not to remember him getting kicked out of boarding school for an elaborate prank gone awry that involved burning an obscene poem into the manicured lawn of the dean using weed killer. Partway through, Henley realized that the weed killer would take too long, so he switched to gasoline. He lit the gas-drenched letters, somehow not knowing that the grass in between would also catch fire.
“It worked in this movie I saw,” he lamented.
I try very hard not to remember how he showed up at my house after the divorce with a team of male strippers and a Ziploc bag full of coke. He insisted that the strippers were working for free after seeing naked pictures of me he had stolen from my phone. They actually all stuck to this story, trying to get my number even as I was kicking them out. I wasn’t in the mood to get laid, but he did make me laugh—and I hadn’t been able to laugh in months.
“You really should have just fucked a few of them to be nice,” he said. “At least one.”
I’m so lost in memories that I don’t notice when noon rolls around. All of a sudden, Alistair and Angelo Marino are in my office, looking at me gravely. I glance up from my desk and frown at them.
“It’s time,” says Angelo Marino.
“Right,” I say. “Have you heard anything from Jay and Rutledge? Shouldn’t they be here?”
“They said they would call us if they need anything from us,” says Angelo Marino. “They haven’t called.”
“I don’t think they’re very good at their jobs,” I say.
“Civil servants,” says Angelo Marino. “You don’t get to pick them.”
I take out my game phone and put it on my desk. Alistair does the same and we stare at each other, searching each other’s eyes.
Both phones ring in unison, and even though we’re expecting it, Alistair and I both jump. I assume that wherever Bernard and Gabriella are, their phones are ringing as well. The Nylo Corporation jingle blares throughout my office in stereo.
We pick up the game phones, and I pull out my regular phone and start recording the game phone for evidence.
At first, all we see is the character-creation menu, but then static fills the screen. When it clears, the background is highly pixelated lapping waves, blood red. In front of the waves, the Game Master appears, this time wearing a hockey mask like Jason from the Friday the 13th movies.
“Welcome back!” says the figure. “We are down to four players and now we are entering day two. Your clue for today is: ‘All the sea farmers know it was her favorite place to stand.’”
I panic because I don’t instantly know the answer to this riddle. I look at Alistair, furrowing my brow.
“Hey, wait a second,” someone says. It’s Gabriella. I can hear her through the phone. We must be able to talk back. The figure in the hockey mask cocks his head to the side.
“We don’t want to play anymore,” says Gabriella. “We want to forfeit.”
“You are certainly welcome to forfeit, which means you will lose all of your lives,” says the figure. “You have two lives left. Do you want to quit playing?”
“No,” says Gabriella. “I mean—”
“You killed our brother, you asshole,”
