Free Killer Move by Michael Marshall

worst of it was that there was no way back. I could go home at the end of the day clutching proof that I’d returned the book, and she could interpret this as me going out of my way to maintain the pretense of not having ordered it in the first place. Even if she eventually believed me, the instant in which she’d thought otherwise remained alive in time.
    I was still fulminating over this when there was a ping to indicate I’d received an e-mail. It was the Amazon help desk, with guidelines for returning a book if you had ordered it in error.
    Suddenly I was even more angry. I hadn’t ordered it in error. Their computer had fucked up. I knew the response I’d just received was itself computer generated, and that made it worse: a computer telling a human how to unscrew an error made by another computer, making me a pawn in some ludicrous glitch-generated scenario I hadn’t asked for in the first place.
    I scribbled a note for Karren’s desk—saying I was headed out to a meeting, and in the process also demonstrating I’d been at work before her—and stomped out to drive to the post office at Ocean View Mall.
    A fter I’d mailed the package back I felt better. I took a twenty-minute time-out with an iced Americano before driving back to work, taking myself through some positivity exercises. It didn’t take long to work out that what had really bugged me was the feeling of loss of control. I’d quickly regained it, and so—big deal. By the time I was done with the coffee I’d gotten to the point where I was emboldened to drop an SMS message to Steph, reiterating that I hadn’t ordered the book but saying that if it had given her any ideas, then I was all ears and would be at her disposal tonight.
    Two minutes later an SMS came back, saying she’d bear the offer in mind, with a winking smiley and a kiss.
    Job done. Steph could think what she liked about whether I’d ordered the book. So long as it turned to my advantage, what did I care?
    On the way back across the lot to my car I noticed a dapper figure walking along in front of the drugstore. He was listening to someone on his cell phone. I slowed, gave him time to end the call, and then took a side step to put me in the man’s field of view.
    “Morning, Mr. Grant.”
    Peter Grant, owner-CEO of Shore Realty, frowned. “There’s no meeting up here today, is there?”
    “No,” I said, thinking on my feet. “Just met with a potential client. I’m heading back to the office now.”
    He nodded, evidently glad to have cleared the mystery up. He was dressed in an understated but wildly expensive suit, and his silver hair seemed to have been spun from the finest thread. He looked distracted, however, slowly replacing his phone in his jacket.
    “So . . . how are things down there, Bill? I see the figures, of course, but it’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to catch up man-to-man. Too long.”
    I wasn’t sure if Grant had ever taken the time to “catch up” with me. “Quiet,” I allowed. “But we’re working at it. Putting our ears to the ground, keeping the clients happy. If they’re on our side, it’s all win.”
    “Very true,” he said, and for a moment seemed to look directly at me, as if seeing me in a particular light. “That’s a positive attitude. It will serve you well.”
    “Only way to beat the world, sir.”
    “Absolutely. Okay, well—don’t let me keep you, Bill. Keep up the good work. And good luck.”
    “Good to talk to you, sir.”
    “You too, Bill,” he said, as he turned to head back into the building. “You too.”
    As I climbed back into the car I was feeling a lot more chipper. Spurred by my off-the-cuff excuse to Grant, it even occurred to me to wonder if my straight-to-the-nukes reaction to the photo book was down to lingering annoyance at the blowout of the night before. I pulled up to the highway, hesitated, then turned right instead of left, to head up the road to David Warner’s house.
    He wasn’t