Or a lack thereof.
Maybe that’s what it was that was bothering him so much, that had been eating away at him, chewing on his insides, at all times of day and night over the last week. He hadn’t slept in days, and he was exhausted. Jenny’s death had set askew the natural order of things, and he sensed the unbalance in the universe around him. Newton’s Third Law at work: Her death was the action, and cosmic disequilibrium the reaction.
He would have to settle for firing the thick man, who had only recently started working for him, and ensuring he never again achieved any professional rank above that of graveyard-shift janitor. The man otherwise wasn’t worth the mental effort: not a single additional electrical impulse fired in a single neuron of Finney’s brain.
Besides, as much as he repulsed Finney, the thick man was not responsible for Jenny’s death.
That distinction belonged to another.
Because, really, what else mattered now?
The grief crashed over him without warning. It was as if his grief were a dense, poisonous liquid, and he was drowning in it, tumbling and spinning, helpless and sick. The familiar feeling, the hated feeling, rose in his throat.
He was going to cry.
He closed his eyes and balled his hands into fists, fighting the tears, as he had done repeatedly since her death. Even so, he felt them pooling in the corners of his eyes. Soon, here in the bright sunlight, in front of the thick man and the world, he would be sobbing like some pathetic child.
He could not, he would not, let that happen. He squeezed his eyelids and fists together harder.
Morgan.
He stirred.
It was Jenny, her voice as distinct and clear as if she were standing right next to him.
Jenny told him it was okay to cry.
He knew that it was the kind of thing that in life she would have encouraged him to do. Out of the mouths of lesser women, such advice would have sounded trite—the pedestrian psychobabble of daytime talk-show hosts and banal self-help books. But not from Jenny. Never from her.
It’s okay, she whispered.
He thought it over. Should he cry? Do what she’d empowered him to do when she was still alive? Acknowledge all of his emotions: the good and the bad? As she would surely want him to do now if she were standing here at his side?
But Jenny wasn’t here. Not really. And as much as he loved her—had loved her, he corrected himself—he was finished with these foolish sentiments. For good. He would no longer wallow in self-pity, as if he were some pig rooting through the foul muck of its pen.
No.
He had to be done with them. Because emotions were weak. Because acknowledging them meant he would never escape the searing pain of her loss. He needed to purge himself of this ridiculous mawkishness.
His fingernails had grown long and firm during the distraction and grief of the past several weeks, through her illness and its bleak finale, and they bit into the soft skin of his palms. It hurt.
It hurt a lot.
Good.
He made slight scraping motions with his fingers to force the nails deeper, drawing blood as he felt them break the surface of the skin, and concentrated on the physical pain to distract himself from the psychological.
Morgan.
She sounded more distant now.
In a way, it should be straightforward. Like closing a business deal, or solving an engineering problem. He just needed to approach things analytically: think it through with the precision, the elegance, of a mathematical equation. He would refocus his energies, redirect these irritating emotions into more meaningful and productive pursuits. But what kinds?
Scrape, scrape, scrape. His fingernails sunk into the compliant flesh. His clenched hands shook. He could feel his palms becoming slick with blood. He pictured it oozing through the gaps between his fingers and dripping onto the ground beneath him. Red dew drops on green grass.
The revelation came to him in a moment of sudden, perfect clarity.
Of course.
The answer was simple.
The grief receded, limping away like a wounded animal.
He relaxed his fists and opened his eyes. The urge to cry was gone. He examined with indifference the four crimson streaks running in series across each of his palms: the eight fingernail-inflicted stigmata trickling tiny red rivulets. He drew a handkerchief out of his pants pocket, wiped his hands clean of the blood, and dropped the soiled handkerchief on the ground, not knowing, or caring, who would pick it up.
He listened for Jenny.
Nothing.
Because, really, what else mattered now?
There was, actually, one thing.
A singular task that required his attention.