Charlie Cutler was an unflappable man; he could not be flapped.

“Job perks,” said Jim, being Jim.

Over the company phone, Charlie told his wife that everything was fine at the office. His clients today were mostly the easy ones; depressives never ask for much, he joked. He told Claire (his wife) he was getting a little tired, but the rest of the day should be smooth sailing. He was always very forthcoming about his day — eager to make contact during his one daily chance to call — except for the days that got stressful, about which he’d be relieved to vent at the dinner table. No one can find time to pause their workday for a personal call every day; that would be weird. Charlie told Claire, anyway, that everything was fine, and that he should be home at a normal time today. He asked her about her day, and she responded in kind, brief but unguarded: the kids were a handful this morning but the errands got done early, and dinner would be getting started soon. She had something special planned. Charlie knew what that meant, but that didn’t make it any less sweet: her signature roast beef and mashed potatoes, a three-generation family recipe. Claire was an old-fashioned wife, a creature of routine; Charlie didn’t mind that in the least. She reminded him in many ways of his own mother, God rest her soul: dependable, trustworthy, uncomplicated. He loved her and told her so, often and certainly today, and she was as quick as ever to reciprocate. Charlie made sure no one in the Cutler family ever had any doubts about their place, about their belonging — about whether they were loved. The bonds (and boundaries) were clear; see you soon sweetie, he said only once — I’ll be home before you even know I was gone.

“Job perks,” said Charlie Cutler, hanging up the company phone—dispassionately observing the image Jim had pulled up on two of the screens in the small, windowless room where they did much of their work: a petite, blonde Texas girl in a dorm room at Midwestern, which Charlie determined instantly based on cues in her body language and skeletal structure, smiling brightly and naked as the birds. Under her body a line of text read, brief and unguarded, for someone not named Charlie or Jim: “Thinkin of u baby ;)”

Charlie Cutler was an unflappable man; he could not be flapped.