Free Darkroom by Joshua Graham Page B

falls to the moon’s insurgence, white clouds turn gray. Many shades of gray. Like the many issues I’ve confronted in my troubled life. And yet, the pinnacle is in sight.With each passing day, the polls favor me more and more. Shouldn’t I be excited?
    Not with all these complications.
    As if waiting for just the right moment to spring, the flight attendant returns with not only my coffee but an in-flight phone. “You have a call on six.”
    “I left specific instructions.”
    “Yes, sir. But it’s Mark Collinsworth.”
    “I see. Thank you, I’ll take this in private, please.” Which she understands to mean that she should wait outside the first-class cabin, with the rest of my staff.
    A call from Mark can only mean further complications. He never calls outside of the scheduled intervals. “What is it now?”
    “We definitely have a breach in section 3b of the execution phase.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Come on, sir.”
    I peel the tinfoil off the half-and-half container. “He was your mentor. You know better than anyone how unlikely that is.”
    “I’d like to remind you that I objected to hiring him for this project.”
    “Okay, what are we talking about here?”
    “It’s still several levels out of range, but there’s been level two exposure.”
    “Then it’s still containable.”
    “In theory. Our best bet is to terminate his contract, and let me handle his segment.”
    “No, I need you in the project manager role.”
    “With all due respect, the sub’s become a major liability. I say we cut our losses. If not me, then I have a roster of suitable replacements.”
    “It hasn’t come to that.”
    “You don’t want to wait until it does.”
    “I’ll let you know.”
    “How am I supposed to get my work done when you keep letting sentimental issues cloud your judgment at every—”
    “I said, not yet! You were hired to implement and oversee this project, not to second-guess me!” My fingers are wet. I glance down to find half-and-half splashed all over my hands and tray. Barely any of it made its way into my cup.
    “Sir, I only meant—”
    “I know what you meant, Mark. Look, I’ve been more than patient with your sophomoric attitude. You’re every bit as replaceable as any of the subcontractors you’ve been appointed to manage, is that clear?”
    Silence.
    Which I take as a yes. For all his swagger, Collinsworth does have a point. But it’s not his call. “Your next contact had better be of the utmost importance. I haven’t the time or patience to deal with anything less.”
    Even as I hang up, my hand continues to tremble.

18
    XANDRA CARRICK
     
    Getting drenched twice in one day, along with a gruesome discovery through what I still refuse to recognize as a precognitive vision, puts a damper on any hopes for photographic inspiration. Seeing the body bag was enough to curtail my Starbucks run, and that’s a significant commentary as to its effect.
    Already, the phone has rung and stopped twice. But I’m so shaken I didn’t even consider picking up.
    Ringing again.
    If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.
    Sitting with another cup of hot coffee and wrapped in a wool throw blanket, I’m watching the live footage on Channel 7 News. Brenda Woodward holds a microphone in one hand and a large red doorman’s umbrella in the other as she speaks into the camera. Why isn’t anyone holding the umbrella for her? On the screen, the superimposed image of a pretty blond girl in her early twenties appears next to Brenda.
    “… still needs to make a definitive forensic ID of the body, but according to the police who noted the clothing the victim was wearing—a white sweatshirt with a large Beta symbol on the back—we’re fairly certain that this is Stacy Dellafina, the Juilliard Dance student reported missing since—”
    Click.
    The remote shakes in my hand and remains suspended along with my open mouth. It’s enough to send me running to the bathroom to fully express my