Kade got sick in February.
Not seriously, but enough. A flu that turned into bronchitis that kept him home for a week, which was the longest Kade Carter had been out of the office in the entire time I had known him.
He was a bad patient. Not in the dramatic way. In the quiet, restless way of someone who is not accustomed to being still and does not know what to do with enforced stillness. He worked from bed for the first two days until I took his laptop and put it in the hallway.
"I have the board call at noon," he said.
"Killian is on the call," I said.
"Killian doesn't have the—"
"I sent Killian the briefing notes at eight this morning," I said. "He's prepared."
Kade looked at me from the pillow.
"You planned this," he said.
"I planned for the scenario in which you would refuse
