"Mr. Whitmore?"
"Arthur Whitmore."
Vanessa swallowed.
"No. Not that I'm aware of."
Martin studied her for a moment.
"Interesting."
"Why?"
He opened his portfolio.
"Because he told me he was planning to stop by yesterday."
The salon seemed to grow quieter.
Daniel felt his stomach tighten.
He looked at Martin, then at Vanessa.
And suddenly, without understanding why, he remembered the elderly man standing at the marble counter.
The brown tweed coat.
The worn shoes.
The storm-gray eyes.
The five dollars.
Martin removed a document from his portfolio and placed it on the desk.
"I'll need the appointment records for yesterday afternoon," he said.
Vanessa stared at the paper.
"Of course."
"And the names of everyone who was working between two and four."
"Certainly."
Martin looked toward the stylists.
His gaze rested on Daniel.
"Especially anyone who served a walk-in customer."
Daniel felt the blood drain from his face.
He had no idea what was happening.
But he was beginning to understand that yesterday's haircut had mattered to someone far more important than Vanessa Reed.
And somewhere beyond the glass walls of Lumina, Arthur Whitmore was preparing to return.
Clarify Arthur’s false-name revealStrengthen the chapter-two timeline
THE GOLD CARD
Martin Shaw had a reputation for being difficult to surprise.
He had spent twenty-seven years in the luxury service industry, beginning as a hotel receptionist and gradually working his way into regional management. He had dealt with celebrity clients who demanded entire floors of hotels be cleared for their arrival, investors who threatened to withdraw millions over a delayed appointment, and executives who believed that shouting at employees was an acceptable way to demonstrate leadership.
He had learned to recognize dishonesty in small details.
A manager who answered a question before it was finished.
An employee who suddenly became interested in the floor.
A receptionist who smiled too broadly when asked to produce a document.
And Vanessa Reed, who was currently doing all three.
"Of course, Mr. Shaw," she said, tapping her tablet. "I'll gather the information you requested."
"Thank you."
"May I ask what this concerns?"
Martin closed his portfolio.
"An internal review."
Vanessa's smile became cautious.
"Is something wrong?"
"That depends on what I find."
She nodded as though the answer satisfied her, then hurried toward the staff corridor.
Martin watched her disappear.
Daniel stood beside his station, holding a comb he had forgotten to put away.
The regional director turned toward him.
"Daniel, was it?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long have you worked at Lumina?"
"Eleven months."
"And you were here yesterday afternoon?"
"Yes."
Martin studied him.
"Did you serve a walk-in customer?"
Daniel hesitated.
He had a sudden, unpleasant feeling that the next sentence could determine whether he kept his job.
"Yes."
"What was his name?"
"He told me his name was Arthur."
Martin's expression changed.
Not dramatically. His eyes simply became more attentive, and the relaxed position of his shoulders disappeared.
"Arthur?"
"Yes, sir. An older gentleman. Gray hair, brown tweed coat."
Martin glanced toward the reception desk.
"Did he make an appointment?"
"No."
"Was he turned away?"
Daniel swallowed.
"At first, yes."
"By whom?"
He looked toward the corridor.
"Vanessa."
Martin did not immediately respond.
Instead, he opened his portfolio again and took out a small notebook.
"Tell me exactly what happened."
Daniel looked at the customers scattered throughout the salon.
A woman in a cream-colored jacket sat beneath a dryer. Marcus was finishing a beard trim. Chloe was arranging towels, though she had begun watching the conversation with obvious interest.
"I don't know if this is something I should discuss in front of everyone," Daniel said.
"That's a reasonable concern."
Martin turned to the other employees.
"Please continue your work. I'll speak to Daniel privately in a few minutes."
Then he faced Daniel again.
"For now, I only need to know whether the customer received the service he requested."
"Yes, sir."
"Was he charged?"
Daniel took a breath.
"He offered five dollars. I accepted it."
"Five dollars?"
"That's what he had."
Martin looked at him for several seconds.
Then he asked a question Daniel did not expect.
"Did you perform the haircut yourself?"
"Yes."
"How long did it take?"
"About twenty minutes."
"Did the customer express any dissatisfaction?"
"No. He thanked me."
Martin wrote something in his notebook.
"Did anyone else speak with him?"
"Vanessa did. Marcus and Chloe were nearby."
"Anyone else?"
Daniel considered the question.
"Not that I remember."
Martin closed the notebook.
"Thank you."
Daniel shifted his weight.
"Sir, may I ask why you're looking into this?"
Martin regarded him carefully.
"Because Mr. Whitmore contacted our office this morning."
The name landed between them.
Daniel felt a strange pressure in his chest.
"Arthur Whitmore?"
"Yes."
"The founder?"
"The same."
Daniel looked toward the framed photograph hanging in the staff office corridor.
The man in the picture wore a dark suit and a broad smile. His silver hair was shorter, his face fuller, and his posture straight. But now that Daniel thought about it, the eyes were unmistakable.
Storm-gray.
Remarkably clear.
He felt foolish for not recognizing them.