Chapter 2 - The Recording in My Pocket
“Don’t open it here,” Tyler whispered.
I stared at the envelope.
“Why?”
“Because I saw who put it in your locker.”
My phone was still recording inside my hand.
Behind the dumpster wall, Randall and Celia had gone silent.
That terrified me more than their conversation.
I grabbed Tyler gently by the elbow.
“Car.”
We moved.
I unlocked the Civic and climbed behind the wheel. Tyler slipped into the passenger seat.
Neither of us spoke until the doors were locked.
“Who put it there?”
“Celia.”
I looked at the envelope again.
It was thick.
Unsealed.
I pulled on the flap.
Tyler caught my wrist.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“She was wearing gloves.”
I stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
“Black kitchen gloves. She went into the locker room after you clocked out.”
“How did you see her?”
“I forgot my headphones.”
His voice shook.
“I went back. She didn’t see me.”
I opened the envelope.
Inside were photocopies.
Invoices.
Wine inventory sheets.
Customer receipts.
And one document carrying my employee number.
I read it twice.
A $4,800 bottle had supposedly been removed from secured inventory under my authorization.
Another page showed $2,300 in private-room gratuities transferred into an employee adjustment account.
Mine.
I looked at Tyler.
“This is fake.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“You weren’t even working the date on that wine form.”
He pointed.
I checked.
He was right.
I had been at my father’s house in Milwaukee that weekend.
My stomach tightened.
Then I remembered my phone.
I stopped the recording.
Seven minutes and twelve seconds.
Enough to hear Celia saying I needed to go.
Enough to hear Randall tell her to give him something.
Enough to hear the words private dining account.
Maybe enough.
But not enough to prove who created the documents in my lap.
“We need copies,” Tyler said.
I looked at him.
“You’re nineteen.”
“So?”
“So you should be worrying about classes and bad dates. Not corporate fraud.”
“I dropped one bottle and Randall tried to destroy my life.”
His expression hardened.
“You were the only person who stopped him.”
That shut me up.
I photographed every page.
Then I put the originals back inside the envelope.
“Where exactly did you find it?”
“Locker seventeen.”
“That isn’t mine.”
“I know.”
Locker seventeen belonged to nobody.
The lock had been broken for months.
I understood.
It wasn’t evidence planted yet.
It was preparation.
Maybe Celia intended to move the papers into my locker later.
Maybe she had been interrupted.
By Tyler.
“Tomorrow,” I said, “you act normal.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Same thing.”
He looked doubtful.
I smiled without humor.
“People get careless when they think you don’t know you’re being hunted.”
The next morning, I arrived twenty minutes early.
Celia greeted me like nothing had happened.
“Morning, Noel.”
“Morning.”
Randall barely looked at me.
Perfect.
I spent the shift documenting everything.
My clock-in time.
Tables.
Receipts.
Wine requests.
Manager approvals.
I photographed my locker before opening it and again before leaving.
At 2:14 p.m., Luciano Duca walked into the restaurant.
Alone.
Every employee within sight suddenly discovered better posture.
I kept polishing glasses.
He approached the bar.
“Noel.”
I looked up.
“Mr. Duca.”
“Luciano.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
He smiled slightly.
“I came for lunch.”
“We serve lunch. Lucky coincidence.”
His eyes moved over my face.
“You always do that?”
“What?”
“Make jokes when you’re uncomfortable.”
I set down the glass.
“You always interrogate waitresses before appetizers?”
“Only the ones my mother has mentioned nine times.”
That got me.
“Nine?”
“Possibly eleven.”
I tried not to smile.
“What did she say?”
“That you’re disrespectful.”
“Sounds right.”
“That you’re bossy.”
“Also right.”
“That you recommended cheesecake.”
“My greatest crime.”
His expression softened.
“She liked you.”
I looked toward the dining room.
“Your mother barely knows me.”
“She doesn’t need long.”
Celia appeared almost instantly.
“Mr. Duca. What a wonderful surprise.”
Her entire voice changed around him.
Luciano nodded politely.
“Ms. Monroe.”
She blinked.
“You remember me?”
“You introduced yourself three times last week.”
I almost choked.
Celia’s smile tightened.
“Your usual table?”
“I’ll sit wherever Noel’s section is.”
There it was.
The sentence that guaranteed another week of workplace misery.
Celia looked at me.
For one second, the pleasant mask vanished.
Then it returned.
“Of course.”
Lunch was uneventful until Luciano paid.
He left a business card beneath the receipt.
I picked it up.
On the back he had written:
If Randall touches you again, call.
I caught up with him near the elevator.
“You forgot something.”
He glanced at the card.
“No.”
“I don’t need protection.”
“Good.”
He took the card, turned it over, and wrote something else.
Then handed it back.
Now it read:
If you ever need someone who will believe you before asking what you did wrong, call.
That landed differently.
I slid it into my apron.
“I still probably won’t.”
“I assumed.”
He left.
Celia watched from twenty feet away.
That evening, my best Friday-night section disappeared from the schedule.
Saturday, two customer complaints appeared under my employee file.
One claimed I had been rude.
The other claimed cash had gone missing from a table.
Both customers supposedly requested anonymity.
Sunday morning, Randall called me into his office.
Celia was already there.
He closed the door.
“We have a problem.”
“Do we?”
He slid a paper across the desk.
A missing wine report.
$4,800.
My employee number.
My authorization code.
“I didn’t sign this.”
“The system says you did.”
“The system can say I’m Beyoncé. That doesn’t make it true.”
Celia folded her arms.
“This isn’t funny.”
“No. It isn’t.”
Randall leaned forward.
“We’re conducting an internal investigation.”
“Great.”
“You’ll need to surrender your locker key.”
“Sure.”
Celia’s eyes flickered.
There.
Tiny.
But I caught it.
I removed the key and placed it on Randall’s desk.
He seemed surprised by how easily I complied.
“You understand we may need to search your belongings.”
“My belongings?”
“Your locker.”
“That belongs to the restaurant.”
“Yes.”
“So search it.”
Celia looked almost disappointed.
Randall stood.
We walked together toward the staff room.
Tyler saw us coming.
His face changed.
I gave him the smallest possible shake of my head.
Don’t react.
Randall opened my locker.
Uniform sweater.
Deodorant.
Spare shoes.
Protein bar.
Nothing else.
Celia stared.
Randall searched again.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“No.”
But something was very wrong.
They expected to find something.
And it wasn’t there.
Because whoever had planned to plant it had failed.
Randall dismissed me.
I worked the rest of the shift.
At 10:30, I went to my locker.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One photograph.
Locker seventeen.
The door stood open.
The envelope was gone.
Below the photograph was a message.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT IT WHERE IT WAS.
I stared at the screen.
Another message arrived.
THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING.
Then a third.
A photograph.
Not of the restaurant.
Not of me.
My father.
He was standing outside his house in Milwaukee, carrying groceries.
The photograph had been taken that afternoon.
I stopped breathing.
Then the locker-room door slowly opened behind me.
May you like
Someone stepped inside.
And locked it.
