Chapter 2 : New Management
[Meat Cute Charcuterie — March 2015, Morning]
Don E stood in the office doorway with two coffees and a look on his face like a golden retriever that sensed a schedule change.
"So here's the deal with Friday," he started, setting one cup on my desk. "Julien's got the van prepped. Chief says the Gasworks spot is clean — no cop patrols after midnight, and the—"
"Friday's off."
Don E blinked. His mouth hung open mid-sentence, caught between words like a man who'd walked into a glass door. "Off... like, postponed?"
"Off like cancelled."
"Cancelled." He said it the way you'd say cancelled if someone told you gravity had been discontinued. Flat. Disbelieving. Waiting for the punchline.
I leaned back in the chair — Blaine's chair, leather, the kind that made you look like you owned things. "SPD has a new task force looking at missing teens. Citywide. If we grab anyone Friday night, we're handing them a case with a bow on it."
This was a lie. I had no idea if a task force existed. But Don E didn't check facts. Don E was a man who operated on instructions and vibes, and right now the vibe was: boss says stop.
"Damn." He scratched the back of his neck. "What about the clients? Julian's been calling twice a day. Mrs. Chen did that thing where she leaves voicemails that are just breathing."
"I'll handle Julian. And Mrs. Chen."
"And the others?"
"All of them. I'll handle all of them."
Don E stared at me. Something shifted behind his eyes — not suspicion exactly, but a kind of recalibration. The real Blaine would've laughed at the concern. Would've told Don E to stop worrying and start working. This Blaine — me — was explaining a decision instead of issuing a command.
"Okay." He drew the word out. "You're the boss."
"I am."
"You seem... different today."
"Bad brain. Ate an accountant. All I want to do is organize spreadsheets and file taxes." I took a sip of the coffee. Lukewarm. Terrible. "Don E. Has anyone ever told you that you make aggressively mediocre coffee?"
He grinned. "Every day, boss."
The grin helped. It meant he was filing away the weirdness under Blaine being Blaine rather than something is fundamentally wrong with Blaine.
From the hallway behind Don E, a shadow shifted. Chief — real name unknown, built like a fire hydrant someone had taught to walk — leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed. He'd been standing there long enough to hear the cancellation. Long enough to form an opinion about it.
He said nothing. His face said plenty.
"Chief. Morning."
"Morning." Flat. The kind of flat that was one degree away from frost.
"Friday's off. I'll brief you later."
He held my gaze for three full seconds. Then he pushed off the doorframe and walked away. No questions. No acknowledgment. Just the heavy thud of boots on tile, retreating toward the front of the shop.
Don E watched him go. "He's been weird lately."
"Chief's always weird."
"Weirder, then." Don E shrugged. "Want me to start prepping the morning orders? Real sausages, I mean. Actual pig."
"Yeah. Go."
He left. I sat with the cold coffee and the silence and the knowledge that Chief — whoever Chief was to the real Blaine — didn't believe the cover story. Not for a second.
[Meat Cute, Storefront — Late Morning]
Julian arrived at eleven.
He was exactly the kind of man who made the real Blaine's business model work: wealthy, polished, terrified of what he was. Mid-fifties, silver hair, the sort of face you'd see on a regional bank commercial. His suit cost more than most people's rent. His hands trembled when he set his briefcase on the counter.
"Blaine." His voice cracked on the second syllable. "I'm out. Completely out. The last delivery was four days ago and I—"
"Julian. Relax."
"I can't relax." He pulled at his tie like it was choking him. "I woke up this morning and my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't tie my shoes. My daughter asked why I looked sick. She's twelve, Blaine. She asked me if I needed to see a doctor."
Upstairs, through the ceiling, the faint sound of piano scales. Julian's daughter, presumably waiting in the apartment above the shop while her father negotiated for human brains in the room below. The scales were careful, measured. "Für Elise," beginner arrangement.
"You'll have a delivery by tomorrow morning," I said.
"Tomorrow." He leaned forward. "I needed one yesterday."
One brain left in the walk-in. One brain, and six clients with the same hollow-eyed desperation Julian was wearing right now. The math was brutal. If I gave Julian the last brain, five others went hungry. If I rationed it, nobody got enough to stay stable.
"Come back at closing. I'll have something for you tonight."
Julian's jaw tightened. His eyes — blue, bloodshot, the pupils dilated in a way that told me his zombie metabolism was burning hot — searched my face for a lie.
"Tonight," he repeated.
"Tonight."
He picked up his briefcase. Straightened his tie. Smoothed the panic off his face the way a man like Julian had been trained to do since boarding school. "My daughter has a recital on Saturday. I need to be myself for that. Do you understand?"
The piano upstairs stumbled over a transition, backed up, tried again.
"I understand, Julian."
He left through the front door. The bell above it chimed — bright and stupid and completely out of place.
[Meat Cute, Back Office — Afternoon]
Blaine's phone had three funeral homes bookmarked. I called the first at 1:15 PM.
"Greenwood Memorial Services, how can I help you?"
"Hi. I'm looking to discuss a — a bulk arrangement. For unclaimed remains."
"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"
"Unclaimed remains. Bodies that are slated for cremation. I represent a research institution that—"
"We don't release remains to third parties without proper authorization from the county. You'd need to contact the King County Medical Examiner's office."
"Right. Of course. And if I wanted to—"
"Sir, are you asking to purchase human remains?"
"No. Absolutely not. I'm asking about—"
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone. Okay. Round one.
The second funeral home answered with a recorded message directing all inquiries to their website. The website required a licensed funeral director's credentials to access any procurement portal.
I didn't have credentials. I had forty-two thousand in cash and a growing list of starving zombies.
The third call — Watkins Funeral Home, a small operation in Rainier Beach — rang eight times. Nobody picked up. I left no message because leaving a voicemail that said Hi, I'd like to buy brains from your unclaimed corpses seemed like the kind of thing that ended in handcuffs.
I put the phone down. Pressed my palms against the desk.
This was always going to be the hard part. The killing was easy to stop — you just stopped killing. Building the replacement was the actual work. The show had never bothered with the logistics because logistics weren't dramatic television. But I was living inside the logistics now, and the logistics were: six people would start losing their minds within the week if I didn't figure this out.
The cooking skill from yesterday's brain lingered in my hands. Three days later and it was still there — the knife work, the instinct for temperatures and timing, the feel of a well-balanced blade. That wasn't supposed to happen. In the show, brain effects faded within days.
Something was different about me.
Something I didn't have time to investigate, because the front door buzzer sounded, and Don E's voice carried through the office wall: "Yo, boss? Some dude from Tacoma's here about a bulk order."
I stood up. Adjusted the collar on Blaine's jacket. Pulled the mask into place — the smile, the charm, the easy confidence of a man who had everything under control.
Three days until Friday. One brain left. Six clients. Zero legal supply channels.
Don E appeared in the doorway. He set a fresh coffee on my desk without being asked — the mug placed at the exact same spot as this morning, at the exact same angle. Muscle memory. Loyalty worn into habit.
"Thanks," I said.
He paused. The word had surprised him. The real Blaine, apparently, didn't say thanks.
"Sure thing, boss." He gave me that look again — the slight tilt of the head, the brief narrowing of the eyes. Not suspicion. Curiosity.
Then it passed. He turned and walked back toward the front.
I drank the coffee. Still terrible. But warm, this time, and someone had made it for me without being asked. In a building full of human brains and butcher's hooks and the faint sound of a twelve-year-old practicing Beethoven upstairs, that small, stupid gesture was the most human thing I'd experienced in two days.
Outside, through the office window, Chief's car sat in the parking lot. Engine idling. Headlights off. He'd been there since the conversation this morning. Just sitting. Watching the building.
I made a note in the ledger: Chief. Problem. Soon.
Then I picked up the phone and dialed Watkins Funeral Home again.
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