Clara stayed on her knees for a long time, staring at the empty metal ribs of the computer case. There was a thin layer of dust on the bottom panel where the hard drives used to sit.
She reached out and touched the disconnected SATA cables. They hadn't been ripped out in a rage. They had been meticulously unclipped.
She stood up, her emergency flats slipping slightly on the hardwood floor. She practically ran down the hall to the master bedroom and threw open the closet doors.
At first glance, everything looked normal. Arthur's heavy winter coats were still hanging there. His cheap dress shoes were lined up on the rack. But when she looked up at the top shelf, the dusty space where he kept his olive-green canvas duffel bag was empty.
She pulled open the top drawer of his nightstand. His passport was gone. His birth certificate, usually kept in a manila envelope under his socks, was gone too.
Emergency server maintenance.
Clara grabbed her phone from her pocket. Her hands were shaking so badly she dropped it on the duvet before managing to unlock it. She dialed his number again.
Straight to voicemail.
She opened her text messages and typed rapidly, ignoring the typos: Arthur where are you? The PC is empty. Are you coming back tonight??
She hit send. The message bubble appeared on the screen, green. Not blue.
An SMS text. Not an iMessage. His phone was either dead, or he had turned his data off. Or he had blocked her.
Clara backed out of the bedroom, her breathing shallow and fast. The apartment, usually a sanctuary of lavender diffusers and expensive furniture, suddenly felt like a trap. She walked into the living room and looked at the router sitting on the TV console. The little green lights were blinking steadily.
She opened the settings on her phone to check the Wi-Fi.
Password Incorrect for network "HarrisonHome_5G".
She stared at the screen. She typed in the password they had used for four years—their anniversary date.
Password Incorrect.
He had locked her out of their own network before he left.
Ten miles away, the neon sign of the Motor Lodge flickered, casting a sickly orange glow through the cheap blinds of Room 114. The room smelled like stale cigarette smoke masking a heavy layer of industrial bleach.
Arthur sat at a small, wobbly laminate desk. He hadn't bothered to take off his jacket.
He unzipped his backpack, pulled out the anti-static bag, and carefully removed the primary solid-state drive. He hooked it up to his Lenovo ThinkPad using a USB-to-SATA adapter. The laptop chimed softly as it recognized the external drive.
Arthur opened a terminal window and connected to a virtual private network, routing his IP address through a server in Switzerland.
He didn't care about Clara's frantic texts. His phone was powered off, sitting at the bottom of his bag. He was operating purely on a timeline now.
He opened a secure browser and navigated to the Harrison-Vane corporate portal. He didn't need to hack anything; he just clicked on the anonymous HR compliance link at the bottom of the page. It was a third-party site designed for whistleblowers.
A blank text box appeared on the screen: Please describe the nature of your report.
Arthur's fingers hovered over the keyboard for a fraction of a second. Then, he typed.
I am reporting an inappropriate and undisclosed relationship between David Vance, Regional Director, and his subordinate, Clara Harrison. This violates the company's fraternization policy and presents a direct conflict of interest regarding recent project assignments and promotions. For confirmation, review the hallway and office security camera footage for the 34th floor on [Date], between the hours of 10:00 PM and 11:30 PM.
He didn't add any emotional language. He didn't call David names. He just provided actionable, undeniable data to the one department in a corporation that had zero sense of humor: Human Resources.
He clicked Submit.
The page refreshed with a generic confirmation number. By 9:00 AM Monday, a compliance officer would pull the tape. They would see Clara letting David into her office. They would see them leave together. David's attempt to distance himself from her failed presentation wouldn't save him from an HR probe.
Arthur closed the browser.
Next, he logged into his Verizon account. He clicked on the 'Manage Devices' tab. His phone and Clara's phone were listed side by side. He clicked on Clara's iPhone 14.
He scrolled down to a specific option: Suspend Service - Device Lost or Stolen.
The site asked if he was sure. It warned him that the device would lose all cellular capabilities, including data and texting, until the account owner formally reactivated it.
Arthur clicked Confirm.
He leaned back in the creaky wooden chair and listened to the rain hitting the motel window. Clara was currently sitting in an apartment with no Wi-Fi. And as of ten seconds ago, her phone was nothing more than an expensive piece of glass and metal. She couldn't call David. She couldn't call a cab. She couldn't even Google how to fix a router.
Isolation was the first step in tearing down a fortress.
Arthur reached into the brown paper bag sitting on the edge of the bed and pulled out the cold container of Pad Kee Mao he had bought the night before. He popped the plastic lid, grabbed a plastic fork, and finally ate his dinner.