The Errorist’s incessant fashion advice had not helped matters. He simply couldn’t see himself in one of those body-hugging turtlenecks or purposefully grungy long-sleeved unbuttoned and untucked numbers. For one, he was built more like a tank than like a willow tree, with certain parts of him more armored than others. Secondly, he was never one for fashion. Even back when he was married, he had a very functional approach to clothes: did it fit, did it cost less than the grocery bill, and was it not paisley. One of his cousins got him something paisley every year for Christmas as a joke. He hated it. So what should he wear now when the objective was to look decent? He had finally settled on something if not fashionable, at least something not unfashionable: a pair of ironed Dockers, comfortable loafers, and a crisp polo with alternating stripes. A light brown jacket topped it off. Most importantly, he had the blueprints for the restaurant and Roberts had retrieved character studies of the regulars and all the staff. If things started to get out of hand, he could quickly manipulate the seething brew of restaurant politics into terrifying incompetence. He had the upper hand.

He went to remind Damien of the rules one last time before leaving, and noticed that the guest bedroom door was shut. He thought about knocking but a cold realization struck him: he was acting just like Damien’s father! The thought disgusted him and so he checked over his equipment and information one last time. With a curt nod to himself, he donned only one pair of sunglasses and stepped out.