A Glitch in the System

The date stared back at her, unblinking in its red pixelated box. *November 14, 1992.*

Claire forced a laugh, a dry, jagged sound that died instantly in the quiet dining room. It was a typo. It had to be. A data entry error on the government’s end, some fat-fingered clerk in a cubicle in D.C. mistaking a 2026 death certificate for one from the Clinton administration.

She hit the *Back* key, erasing the field.

Her fingers were slick with sudden, irrational sweat. She wiped them on her jeans and reached for the physical Social Security card clipped to the file. The paper was soft with age, the edges fraying, but the numbers were typed in clear, resolute black ink.

*214-05-XXXX*

She typed them in again. Slower this time. Saying each digit aloud in a whisper, like a prayer.

*Verify.*

The spinning wheel returned.

"Please," she hissed at the screen. "Just take it."

Down the hall, the television crowd roared again, a swell of synthetic joy that made the silence in the dining room feel heavier. They were in there, the Vance men, bonded by blood and beer, while she sat here fighting with a ghost in the machine.

*Ping.*

**CRITICAL ERROR: TAXPAYER DECEASED 1992.**

Claire shoved the chair back. The legs screeched against the hardwood, a violent sound that echoed off the high ceilings. She stood up, pacing the length of the Persian rug. This was impossible. Evelyn Vance had been the chairwoman of the Botanical Garden Board until three months ago. She had hosted Christmas dinner at this very table five weeks ago.

Claire grabbed her phone. She needed to call the helpline. She needed to explain to someone that her mother-in-law had definitely, undeniably been alive to critique Claire’s turkey carving technique last month.

"Claire."

The voice didn't come from the phone. It came from the archway.

She spun around.

Arthur Vance stood there. He was seventy-two, but he held himself with the posture of a man twenty years younger. He wasn't wearing a jersey. Arthur Vance didn't do "casual," even on Sundays. He wore a pressed button-down and a cashmere cardigan, his silver hair swept back in a wave that never moved.

He stared at her phone, then at her face.

"You're radiating stress," Arthur said. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation. "It ruins the atmosphere of the house."

Claire lowered the phone, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I'm sorry, Arthur. It's the software. There's a glitch."

"A glitch?" He walked into the room. He didn't stomp like David; he glided. He stopped at the edge of the table, his hand resting on a stack of condolence cards. "David said you were ordering food. Is that the glitch?"

"No. It’s the tax return." Claire gestured to the laptop, her hand shaking. "I’m trying to verify Evelyn’s Social Security number for the final filing. The system keeps rejecting it."

Arthur looked at the laptop, then back at her. His expression didn't change. It was the same look he gave a waiter who brought the wrong wine—mild disappointment, masking absolute judgment.

"Rejecting it how?"

"It says she's dead," Claire said. "I mean, obviously she is *now*. But the system claims she died in 1992."

She waited for him to frown. To scoff. To make a joke about government incompetence.

Arthur didn't move. He didn't blink. He stood perfectly still, his hand still resting on the cards, his eyes fixed on hers with a sudden, terrifying intensity. The background noise of the football game seemed to drop away, leaving a ringing silence in her ears.

For a second, just one disjointed second, Claire felt a wave of cold prickle down her spine. He looked like he was calculating something. Assessing a threat.

Then, the mask slid back into place.

"Don't be ridiculous, Claire," he said, his voice smooth and dismissive. "It's a computer error. You know how these government databases are. Garbage in, garbage out."

"It's flagging it as a critical mismatch," Claire pressed, confused by his lack of annoyance. "I can't bypass it. I was going to call the IRS helpline to—"

"No."

The word was sharp. Like a door slamming shut.

Arthur smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "There is no need to sit on hold for three hours on a Sunday. You're overthinking it, as usual. Just file the extension manually. Paper filing. Bypass the digital verification."

"But if there's an error on her master file, a paper return will just trigger an audit later," Claire argued, her professional instincts kicking in. "We need to clear the record. If the SSA thinks she died thirty years ago, then every tax return filed since then is invalid. The trust, the estate transfers, everything could be—"

Arthur took a step closer. He entered her personal space, smelling of expensive soap and old scotch. He reached past her and closed the laptop.

The screen went black. The red box vanished.

"I am not interested in an audit, Claire. And I am certainly not interested in you stirring up bureaucratic nightmares because you trust a glitchy piece of software over reality."

His hand lingered on the closed lid of the computer. Heavy. pinning it down.

"Computers make mistakes, Claire," he said, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated in her chest. "Fix it manually. And do not call anyone."