Jimmy returned to his office above Morrison's butcher shop near eleven, the spring morning sun doing little to warm Birmingham's persistent chill. He'd intended to sleep for a few hours—Tommy's warning about exhaustion had landed with enough weight that even Jimmy's resistance to admitting vulnerability couldn't entirely dismiss it.
But as he climbed the narrow stairs, his mind was already cataloging the afternoon's work: intelligence reports to review, council voting analysis to complete, Webb's schedule to coordinate with upcoming political opportunities.
Sleep felt like wasted time when there was so much to manage.
He pushed open his office door and stopped.
Eleanor Davies sat in the visitor's chair beside his desk, a folder of papers on her lap. She'd grown since he'd last seen her three years ago—the nineteen-year-old girl secretly attending socialist meetings had become a twenty-one-year-old woman with the serious, determined air of someone who'd found purpose in political organizing.
Her dark curly hair was tied back practically, her clothing was working-class respectable, and her eyes held the sharp intelligence that had always made her dangerous.
"Miss Davies." Jimmy closed the door behind him, mind shifting instantly from exhaustion to strategic assessment. How had she gotten in? Why was she here? What did she want? "This is unexpected."
"I used the lockpicks you taught me." Eleanor's voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "You said once that sometimes legitimate access required illegitimate methods. I hoped you wouldn't mind."
"I don't mind." Jimmy moved to his desk, noting the papers spread there were undisturbed. Whatever Eleanor wanted, she hadn't come to steal information. "What brings you here?"
"I need your help understanding something." Eleanor opened her folder, pulling out documents with the careful handling of someone who knew their value. "I've been investigating Birmingham's power structures for our organizing work—understanding who actually controls what, where money flows, how decisions get made."
"Ambitious research."
"Necessary research. Can't organize effectively if you don't understand the systems you're trying to change."
Eleanor spread several documents across Jimmy's desk. "I found something that doesn't make sense. I'm hoping you can explain it."
Jimmy recognized the papers immediately—his chest tightening even as his face remained carefully neutral. Copies of campaign documents from Webb's election. Intelligence reports showing Ada's activities. Correspondence between reform movements and opposition campaigns.
And most damningly: documentation showing Ada feeding information to Catherine Winters while Section D monitored and redirected that intelligence to serve Shelby interests.
"Where did you get these?"
"Research connections. People who keep records that aren't supposed to exist." Eleanor's finger traced the pattern she'd identified. "Look at the dates. Ada Shelby was helping Winters' campaign—specific policy information, strategic guidance, internal Shelby intelligence.
But there's also evidence of Section D involvement, someone redirecting Ada's information to benefit the Shelbys."
She looked up at Jimmy, confusion and suspicion mixing in her expression. "It only makes sense if someone was managing Ada's betrayal. Using her resistance against the Shelbys to actually serve Shelby interests. Can you explain this?"
Jimmy's mind raced through options with practiced speed:
Option 1: Deny everything. Claim the documents were fabricated. Destroy Eleanor's credibility.
Option 2: Admit partial truth. Acknowledge Ada's involvement but obscure his own role.
Option 3: Manipulate Eleanor away from the truth while making her feel smart for finding it.
Option 3. Always Option 3. Make the target believe they've found answer while steering them away from actual reality.
"These are forgeries, Eleanor." Jimmy picked up the documents, examining them with professional skepticism. "Very good ones—whoever created them understood both Shelby operations and intelligence work. But forgeries nonetheless."
"How can you tell?"
"The Section D letterhead is wrong. See this seal?" Jimmy pointed to details that were actually correct, lying with the confidence of someone who'd spent years perfecting misdirection. "That design wasn't used until early 1924. These documents are supposedly from late 1923.
Whoever forged them made a chronological error."
Eleanor leaned closer, studying the detail Jimmy had indicated. Her expression shifted from suspicion toward acceptance—she wanted to trust him, wanted his expertise to resolve her confusion.
"But the information about Ada—"
"Also fabricated. Think about it strategically." Jimmy pulled out his notebook, sketching a quick diagram of Birmingham's political landscape. "Lawrence Blackwood lost the election badly. His supporters were furious, looking for explanations.
What better explanation than suggesting the Shelbys were so sophisticated they could make even opposition to them serve their interests?"
"Making Ada look like an unwitting puppet..." Eleanor's voice carried dawning understanding.
"Exactly. It discredits progressive movements by suggesting they're so easily manipulated. Makes everyone paranoid, divides reformers against each other."
Jimmy leaned back, affecting the casual confidence of someone explaining obvious truth. "Classic disinformation campaign. Create documents that look real, plant them where investigators will find them, let paranoia do the rest."
Eleanor studied the papers again, her earlier certainty eroding under Jimmy's confident explanation. "That makes sense. I should have thought of that myself—using real people's activities to construct false narrative."
"You're twenty-one and relatively new to intelligence analysis. Missing sophisticated forgeries isn't a failing."
Jimmy gathered the documents, careful to handle them as if they were dangerous rather than damning. "I'll keep these for proper disposal. If Blackwood's people are planting forgeries, we need to track where else they might surface."
"Thank you, Mr. Cartwright." Eleanor stood, relief visible in her posture. "I was worried I'd stumbled onto something that would hurt Ada. She's been good to our movement—I didn't want to believe she'd been manipulated that completely."
"She wasn't. She's exactly who she appears to be—principled reformer who maintained her convictions despite family pressure."
The lie came easily, smoothly, with the perfect sincerity Jimmy had perfected over months of strategic deception. "Don't let forged documents make you doubt genuine people."
Eleanor left satisfied, reassured, her confusion resolved by someone she trusted.
Jimmy closed the door behind her and stood very still, Eleanor's documents in his hands, his heart hammering in his chest despite the calm he'd maintained throughout the conversation.
She'd found it. Found the documentation of Book 2's central deception. Found proof that Ada's heroic resistance was Jimmy's managed operation.
And he'd convinced her—quickly, efficiently, perfectly—that the truth was a lie.
Crisis averted through strategic manipulation. Problem solved through confident deception. Victory achieved through making someone doubt what they'd accurately discovered.
The hollow feeling in Jimmy's chest suggested the victory wasn't quite as satisfying as it should have been.
---
From the entrance of the Shelby betting shop across the street, Polly Gray had watched the entire interaction through Jimmy's office window.
She couldn't hear the conversation. Couldn't see the specific documents. But she'd watched Jimmy's body language shift from surprise to calculation to performance.
Watched Eleanor's expression change from suspicion to confusion to acceptance. Watched Jimmy handle whatever crisis had arrived with the same strategic brilliance he brought to every problem.
Watched him lie. Convincingly, effectively, perfectly.
Polly said nothing. Simply stood in the doorway for a moment longer, her expression troubled, before turning back inside.
She knew what Jimmy had just done. Didn't need to hear the words to recognize manipulation when she saw it. The boy was too good at lying now—so good he made truth look like fiction and fiction look like truth.
She returned to her desk and made a mental note. Something was coming. Some complication that Jimmy's perfect systems wouldn't be able to absorb.
And when it arrived, all his strategic brilliance wouldn't be enough.
Perfect systems failed catastrophically when they failed.
Polly had seen it before. Would see it again.
The only question was how much damage Jimmy would do—to himself and everyone around him—before the collapse.
---
The message arrived at the betting shop just after two o'clock: Mrs. Price collapsed. Heart problems. Rushed to Birmingham General Hospital. Conscious but serious.
Jimmy was moving before the messenger finished speaking, grabbing his coat and heading for the door with single-minded focus. Tommy called after him—something about taking Arthur or John for protection—but Jimmy was already gone, half-running through Small Heath's afternoon crowds toward Steelhouse Lane.
Birmingham General Hospital loomed ahead, red brick Victorian imposing and institutional. Jimmy pushed through the main entrance, navigating corridors that smelled of disinfectant and illness until he found the Women's Medical Ward.
Mrs. Price lay in a bed near the window, small and diminished in her hospital gown. Her weathered hands rested on white sheets, and oxygen tubes ran beneath her nose.
But her eyes were open, clear, taking in Jimmy's arrival with the same sharp assessment she'd always brought to their interactions.
"Cariad," she said softly. "You came quickly."
"Of course I came." Jimmy pulled the uncomfortable wooden chair closer to her bedside, sitting but already leaning forward, mind shifting into problem-solving mode. "What happened? What did the doctors say? What's the diagnosis and prognosis?"
"Heart condition. Been having chest pains for months, didn't want to worry you. Today it got worse, and my neighbor called for help."
Mrs. Price's voice was steady despite obvious exhaustion. "They're saying I need extended care. Possibly surgery. Definitely rest and monitoring."
"I'll arrange everything." Jimmy pulled out his notebook, already making lists. "Best doctors—I know a cardiac specialist at Queen's Hospital. Private room so you're comfortable. All expenses covered through Shelby resources.
Specialists from London if necessary. Whatever you need, I'll—"
"No, cariad." Mrs. Price's hand covered his, stopping his writing mid-sentence. "I don't want that."
Jimmy looked up, confused. "You don't want proper medical care?"
"I don't want you solving this." Her voice was gentle but firm. "I don't want you managing me like you manage everyone else. Arranging things, controlling outcomes, making decisions for what you think is best."
"I'm trying to help you."
"I know. But that's not the help I need." Mrs. Price's grip on his hand tightened slightly. "I want you to sit with me. Just sit. Be present without plotting three moves ahead. Can you do that?"
Jimmy tried. Genuinely tried.
He settled back in the chair, released his notebook to his lap, focused on just being there with her. Present. Attentive. Caring without strategizing.
But his mind wouldn't cooperate.
*Heart condition requiring surgery. Research cardiac specialists. Best facilities: Queen's Hospital in Birmingham, or possibly Leeds General. Cost approximately £200-300 for surgery plus recovery.
Shelby resources can cover that. Need to coordinate with hospital administration, arrange private room, expedite specialist consultations—*
"You're doing it right now," Mrs. Price said quietly. "I can see your mind working. Planning, calculating, managing."
"I'm just thinking about how to help you."
"No, you're thinking about how to solve me. There's a difference." She studied his face with the same worried expression she'd worn for months. "You've lost something, Jimmy. The clever boy who used to sit in my kitchen and actually talk with me—not at me, not through me, just talk.
Where did he go?"
Jimmy had no answer. The person she was describing felt like someone else entirely, someone from before he'd learned to treat every human interaction as strategic opportunity.
Before he'd perfected the art of managing people's realities while they believed they were making their own choices.
"I'm still here," he said, but the words felt hollow even as he spoke them.
"Are you?" Mrs. Price's eyes were sad. "Because when I ask you to just sit with me—not solve anything, not manage anything, just be present—you can't do it. Your mind is already three steps ahead, planning treatments and coordinating logistics and ensuring optimal outcomes.
You've forgotten how to just be with someone."
The observation landed with uncomfortable accuracy. Jimmy couldn't just sit. Couldn't turn off the strategic thinking. Couldn't stop seeing problems that needed solutions, complications that required management, futures that demanded planning.
He'd optimized away the ability to be present.
"I'm sorry," Jimmy said finally. "I don't know how to help you the way you're asking."
"I know, cariad. That's what worries me." Mrs. Price released his hand, settling back against her pillows with visible exhaustion. "You should go. Do your work. I'll be fine here."
"I can stay—"
"No. You'll just sit there mentally arranging specialists and planning logistics while pretending to be present. That's worse than leaving."
Her voice held sadness rather than anger. "Go manage your operations, Jimmy. It's what you're good at now. Maybe someday you'll remember how to do the other thing."
Jimmy left the hospital as dusk settled over Birmingham, Mrs. Price's words echoing in his mind with uncomfortable persistence.
---
The walk back to Small Heath took him through streets transforming in evening light. Gas lamps flickered to life, their warm glow pushing back the spring twilight. Factory whistles marked shift changes, workers streaming toward homes and pubs.
Children played in the lengthening daylight—spring's gift of extra hours before darkness.
Jimmy noticed none of it.
His mind spun through impossible questions: How did you help someone by not helping them? How did you solve a problem that explicitly required not solving it?
How did you be present when presence was foreign language you'd forgotten how to speak?
Mrs. Price's request felt impossible. Like asking him to stop breathing while remaining conscious. Strategic thinking wasn't something he did—it was who he was, integrated so completely into his consciousness that removing it would leave nothing behind.
If he couldn't plan and strategize and manage, what was left?
The question terrified him more than he wanted to acknowledge.
Jimmy reached his office building as full darkness fell, the blood-smell from Morrison's shop below mixing with coal smoke and evening cooking. He climbed the stairs slowly, exhaustion finally catching up with him after the long day of meetings and crises.
He pushed open his office door and froze.
Billy Kitchen sat in the visitor's chair—the same chair Eleanor had occupied that morning—looking weathered and tired but determined. The man who'd betrayed the Shelbys three years ago, whose death Jimmy had faked to give him a second chance, who'd been living quietly in Glasgow as Thomas Bennett.
"Hello, Mr. Cartwright," Billy said quietly. "Been a while."
Jimmy closed the door, mind already shifting gears despite exhaustion. Billy's presence meant complications. Questions about why he'd returned, what he wanted, whether Jimmy's mercy had been mistake that now required correction.
"Billy. This is unexpected."
"I imagine it is." Billy gestured to the other chair. "Sit down. We need to talk about what you've become."
The statement hung in the air between them—not threat, not accusation, just observation delivered with uncomfortable directness.
Jimmy sat, reaching automatically for cigarettes, and waited for whatever complication Billy Kitchen had brought back to Birmingham.
The day that had started with Eleanor's dangerous discovery and continued with Mrs. Price's impossible request was ending with the ghost of Jimmy's past mercy returning to haunt him.
Three cracks in his perfect systems, appearing simultaneously, each threatening something essential.
And Jimmy sat in his office above the butcher shop, blood seeping through his ceiling, exhaustion making his hands shake, and wondered if this was what Polly had meant about catastrophic failure.
The first domino had fallen.
The question was how many others would follow.