Chapter 3 - THE REPORT AGAINST ME
Forty-three names.
That was what kept me awake.
Not Ethan Hayes sitting in the only chair in my kitchen at two in the morning.
Not Finn standing near the window watching the street.
Not the fact that two men I would normally cross several blocks to avoid had somehow become the people helping protect my son.
Forty-three.
I imagined forty-three versions of my apartment.
Forty-three overdue notices.
Forty-three people telling children they weren’t hungry.
Forty-three workers letting employers steal small amounts because hiring a lawyer cost more than the wages themselves.
“Go home,” I told Ethan.
He looked up from Gregory’s reconstructed payroll.
“I am not in your home.”
“You’re in my kitchen.”
“I’m in a chair.”
“The chair is in my kitchen.”
He considered that.
“Fair.”
“Sam is asleep. Finn is watching the street. You got the evidence. Go.”
“You should eat.”
I stared at him.
“Do you always order people around?”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t rhetorical.”
“I know.”
He opened the paper bag sitting on my counter.
Soup.
Bread.
Chicken.
Something that smelled like rosemary.
My stomach betrayed me audibly.
I hated it.
Ethan said nothing.
That somehow made it worse.
“I’ll pay you back.”
“No.”
“Then I’m not eating.”
He looked at me.
“You collapsed because you were starving.”
“I collapsed because Gregory stole wages.”
“Both can be true.”
“I’m paying.”
“Fine.”
“How much?”
He looked at the bag.
“Twenty dollars.”
“That meal costs more than twenty.”
“Tonight it costs twenty.”
“You’re terrible at pretending not to be generous.”
“I’m terrible at many things.”
That answer surprised me.
I ate.
Slowly at first.
Then fast enough that I forced myself to stop because Sam had taught me what happened when hunger met food too quickly.
Ethan watched the payroll pages.
“What do you know about Gregory?”
“He’s cheap.”
“Beyond that.”
“He hires people who won’t complain.”
“Why?”
“Because people with papers complain.”
“You mean tax documents?”
“Immigration papers too.”
Ethan’s eyes hardened.
“Who?”
“Luis. Maybe others.”
“So withholding wages wasn’t random.”
“No.”
“It was targeted.”
I stopped eating.
That word changed it.
Targeted.
Gregory didn’t simply steal because he could.
He chose people who had reasons to remain quiet.
People who needed cash.
People who were undocumented.
People with criminal records.
Single mothers.
Older workers.
Anyone whose life made confrontation expensive.
My phone rang.
Carla Nguyen.
I answered.
“Ms. Davis, I need you to come to the office tomorrow morning.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“The report was amended.”
“What does that mean?”
“There are new allegations.”
I looked at Ethan.
“What allegations?”
“A claim that you stole prescription medication while employed at L’Osteria.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“I don’t take prescription medication.”
“The caller submitted photographs.”
“What photographs?”
“I can’t discuss everything over the phone.”
“Who made the report?”
“I can’t identify the reporter.”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the alternative was screaming.
“Let me guess. They said I’m unstable too.”
Silence.
That was yes.
When the call ended, I looked at Ethan.
“He’s trying to take my son.”
“No.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know Gregory.”
“You knew him before tonight?”
That stopped him.
The pause was tiny.
But I saw it.
“You did.”
Ethan closed the payroll folder.
“I knew of him.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means L’Osteria is connected to people I do business with.”
“What kind of business?”
He smiled without warmth.
“You already know better than to ask that.”
I stood.
“You sat in my kitchen pretending you found all of this by accident.”
“I found you by accident.”
“But not Gregory.”
“No.”
My anger sharpened.
“So why were you there?”
“Meeting someone.”
“Gregory?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“That is not relevant.”
“It becomes relevant when somebody photographs my child.”
Ethan’s expression cooled.
“You’re right.”
I waited.
He exhaled once.
“L’Osteria has been losing cash for eight months. Enough that its owner asked me to look into it.”
“You own it?”
“No.”
“Then why you?”
“Because I am very good at finding where money disappears.”
That sounded like the cleanest description of criminal influence I had ever heard.
“You suspected Gregory.”
“Yes.”
“And then I collapsed at your feet with part of his payroll fraud in my bag.”
“Yes.”
“You thought I was involved.”
“At first.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Of course you did.”
“I was wrong.”
“Congratulations.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive the assumption.”
“Good.”
“I’m telling you Gregory’s problem is bigger than three hundred dollars.”
“I figured that out when he threatened my son.”
Ethan’s eyes changed again.
“He won’t do that twice.”
“Don’t.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re thinking it loudly.”
That almost made Finn smile.
Almost.
The next morning, Carla showed me the photographs.
A prescription bottle in my old locker.
White tablets scattered beside it.
My name written on a piece of tape.
I stared.
“That’s not mine.”
“I believe you may be telling the truth.”
“May?”
“I need evidence.”
“I worked in a kitchen. Do you know how many people had access to that locker?”
“No.”
“Everyone.”
She slid another document toward me.
“The report claims you appeared intoxicated at work.”
“I fainted from hunger.”
“Do you have medical documentation?”
“No ambulance came.”
“Why?”
I thought of Ethan ordering his men to move me into the office.
“That’s complicated.”
Carla leaned back.
“Ms. Davis, I need you to understand something. Poverty does not make you an unfit parent.”
My throat tightened.
“But instability can become dangerous if there is no plan.”
“I have a plan.”
“What?”
I looked down at my hands.
Honestly?
I didn’t.
I had a three-hundred-dollar payment, lights for another month and no job.
The realization must have shown on my face.
Carla softened.
“Then build one.”
My phone buzzed.
Finn.
A photograph.
Security footage from L’Osteria.
Gregory entering the staff hallway the afternoon after he fired me.
Then another.
Gregory opening my locker.
Another.
His hand placing something inside.
The prescription bottle.
I stared.
Carla noticed.
“What is it?”
I turned the phone around.
Her expression changed immediately.
“Send this to me.”
I did.
Then called Ethan.
“You found it.”
“Yes.”
“He planted the medication.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To discredit you.”
“No. Why risk that much over three hundred dollars?”
Silence.
Then Ethan said:
“Because you took something out of the restaurant without knowing it.”
My chest tightened.
“The payroll strip.”
“Not just that.”
“What else?”
“The pawnshop receipt.”
I looked through my bag.
The receipt for my mother’s necklace.
“What about it?”
“Look at the back.”
I turned it over.
There were numbers written in blue pen.
I had never noticed them.
Three columns.
Dates.
Amounts.
Initials.
My mouth went dry.
“Whose handwriting?”
“Luis Ortega’s.”
“What?”
“He used that receipt to record cash Gregory was moving through the kitchen.”
“How did it end up in my bag?”
“We don’t know.”
I remembered Luis borrowing a pen during our final shift.
He had stood near my locker.
He had looked terrified when Gregory entered.
“Where is Luis?”
Silence.
“Ethan.”
“We can’t find him.”
My stomach dropped.
“When was the last time anyone saw him?”
“Three nights ago.”
The night before Gregory fired me.
I stared at the numbers on the back of the pawnshop receipt.
Suddenly three hundred dollars felt very small again.
“What do the amounts add up to?”
Ethan answered quietly.
“Just over two hundred thousand.”
I stopped breathing.
“Where did the money go?”
“We’re working on that.”
Then another message appeared on my phone.
Unknown number.
One photograph.
Luis Ortega standing beside a bus terminal.
Alive.
Underneath it:
Tell Hayes to stop digging.
I called Ethan immediately.
He answered on the first ring.
“Ethan.”
“What?”
“They know you’re helping me.”
His voice changed.
“Nora, lock the door.”
I looked toward the glass entrance of the Family Services building.
A man across the street lowered his phone.
May you like
Then walked away.
And for the first time, I realized Gregory might not be the most dangerous person who cared about what had fallen out of my bag.
