Chapter 04 – Blue Monday
***Wright at Home***
Monday morning welcomed Chase with the blue glow of his phone. He rolled over, squinting. “Almost nine, thank God I’m salaried.”
Three messages from Vincenzo sat in the notification bar:
‘after-party was nuclear,’ ‘giving you another chance buddy,’ and a blunt ‘lunch. Don’t flake.’
Then a message from Amelia.
‘Made it home. Thanks for the walk. Don’t accept any “gifts.” ☺ P.S. Two years is a lot of time to catch up on.’
Chase winced, staring at the cursor.
He typed a long excuse about being a coward, backspaced it, then tried something honest about missing her. Deleted that too. In the end he settled for something safer.
‘Coffee IOU this week? I promise to leave the ‘SilverTongue’ closing arguments at the office.’
The three dots appeared.
‘Wednesday, she replied. I’d like to know what’s up with that friend of yours. Then, a second later: I want the Orangeside-Chase version. I don’t want to be “SilverTongued.’
Chase laughed.
He scrubbed a hand over his stubble, smiled, and forced himself out of bed.
On his way out, he paused at the hall closet.
A faint scent of cleaner and old paper drifted from his battered duffel bag. The one he’d carried every day during his stint at the orphanage.
It was packed with retired ‘Harmon Home’ forms, a frayed lanyard, and that ridiculous ballpoint pen with ‘infinite ink’ the girl had pressed into his hand. The one who made the lobby play AC/DC.
He shut the door gently.
***The Law Offices of Michael & Cole***
“Quiet for a Monday morning.” Chase said walking through a series of cubicles
He stopped at the cubicle where Gunther had sat the night before. The desk was bare. No computer, no phone, no personal items. Moving the chair with his foot, he leaned down, the network line cut.
Chase stepped into his office, a stack of contracts waited on his desk.
Late morning senior partner, Geoffrey Wagner, dropped a new folder in front of him with a flick of the wrist. “Gunther’s not coming in, I need you to look at these.”
Chase opened the folder, a safety inspection report for Naomi Lake fell-out. Glancing at the report he frowned.
He checked his phone again: nothing from Amelia, but two more from Vincenzo.
One was a location pin at Phun Timez, the other a selfie in a ring light with the caption:
‘American Psycho but make it philanthropic.’
Chase closed the folder, checked his watch.
Grabbing his jacket, he left the office.
***PawsCity Vibes***
The clinic opened on a typical Monday. A slow-motion blur of fur, fear, and frayed patience. Amelia moved through it, the familiar orchestra of barks and whimpers almost comforting. She sat at the reception desk, her head down phone in her hands.
‘Mondays at the clinic were a slow-motion pileup of chaos.’ Amelia added to her ‘I BEE Overhinking’ blog. She looked up at the clock, it read 7:37am.
A German Shepherd with a raw hotspot, a tabby cat determined to defy gravity, and the usual parade of worried owners. Amelia moved through it with the steady hands and soft voice she’d perfected years ago.
In the brief lulls between barking and tears, her mind kept slipping to the hum of the lamppost, the damp air, and the way Chase had looked at her under that stuttering light.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
Noah:
‘Disappeared after the reunion. Making sure you’re not kidnapped. Did “Silver” and “Gold” bug you too much?’
She smirked, typing back:
‘Almost. Great seeing Chase again. He’s what I remember. Vincenzo is… like camping.’
She slid the phone away just as Mrs. Halvorsen shuffled in with Snickers, an ancient corgi held together by spite and eye-watering vet bills.
The dog took one look at Amelia and let out a long, dramatic sigh.
“We both need more sleep,” Amelia whispered, scratching behind his ears. Snickers answered with a room-clearing fart, she laughed.
On her late morning break she escaped to the back steps with a lukewarm coffee.
The alley smelled of damp concrete and distant rain. She’d barely taken two sips when her phone buzzed again — Chase this time.
‘Coffee IOU this week? I promise to leave the SilverTongue closing arguments at the office.’
She typed the reply before she could talk herself out of it.
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, rereading it.
She opened her notes app and typed the two lines that had been circling since she’d left him on the porch:
Men like that don’t give / they trade.
What do I do with a good man who thinks he owes me?
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
She deleted the second line, then typed it again. Locked the phone.
***El Viento Tower***
The office was half laboratory, half theater.
Glass-walled war room on one side, velvet-draped stage with ring lights on the other.
Vincenzo stood in the center of the lights, rolling his jaw loose.
“Chat,” he rehearsed into a dead camera.
“Question for the room: how far should a man go for the boy who kept him grounded? What’s the real price of pulling a friend into the life he deserves?”
He smiled.
Tori from Ops hovered in the doorway. “Your nooner is here,” she said, checking her tablet.
“Send him in,” Vincenzo answered, watching the office door in the reflection of his monitor.