Chapter 9
My apartment smelled like old coffee and cleaning spray when I unlocked the door.
I dropped my bag by the door and didn't turn on the big light. Just the lamp by the window. The place was tiny, one room with a kitchenette, but I'd kept it neat. Or I tried to. Tonight there was a pile on the counter I hadn't dealt with.
Envelopes. White, cream, one pink overdue notice from the gas company. Rent slip with the late fee already added in red ink. A county clinic bill for Mom's prescription I'd covered last month. And a grocery receipt I'd kept folded in my pocket for three days because I needed to return the soup.
Thirty-six hours. I did the math standing there in my uniform, still smelling like that marble polish. Even at minimum plus the little night differential, three twelves would have almost covered the rent plus the gas notice. That's why I stayed when the supervisor said, "Olivia approved it, you want the hours, right?" I'd needed the answer to be yes so badly I didn't ask how she got them approved so fast.
I sat at the little table and opened the envelopes one by one. Late fee. Past due. Second notice. The numbers were small to anyone else. To me they were the reason my eyes closed on that table.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I stared at it and let it go to voicemail. Then it buzzed again, same number, and a text preview showed: "Maya, it's Jen from floor. Don't talk to HR..."
I didn't open it. I powered the phone off and set it face down. Marcus had said don't answer if she calls. This was her.
I stood up, went to the sink, and splashed water on my face. In the little mirror over the sink I looked exactly like I had on that table, pale, hair pulled back too tight, the black collar of the uniform dark against my neck. But I was awake now.
I pulled out the notepad I used for grocery lists. Plain paper, my real handwriting. I started writing before I could talk myself out of it.
My name is Maya Collins. I was assigned extra shifts on 10/12, 10/13, 10/14 from 15:00 late. I did not sign volunteer sheet. I was told schedule approved with Olivia's code. I stayed because I needed money for rent and bills. I did not enter code or use terminal. I was told to keep working.
My hand shook on the last line. The letters were not loopy. They were small, tight, tired, but they were mine.
I folded that paper and put it in my bag for Marcus. Then I pulled the rent slip and the gas notice and stacked them neatly under my keys, not hiding them. If I was going to tell the truth tomorrow, I was going to tell all of it, not just the part that made me look innocent. I was tired because I was broke, and I was broke because I said yes when I should have asked why.
I made toast I didn't really taste, set an alarm for seven, and lay down on the bed still in my t-shirt, not the uniform. The apartment was quiet. No hallway chatter, no overhead spots, no one watching me sleep.
I woke before the alarm. The sun was thin through the blinds. I turned my phone back on. No new voicemails from Jen, just that one text I didn't read. I put on a clean uniform, packed the handwritten statement, and looked once at the bills on the counter before I left them there.
Outside, the air was cool. I took the bus to the office instead of walking, so I'd be exactly on time, not early, not late.
When I got to the back entrance at 7:45, Marcus was already there with two coffees, standing by the door. He didn't look surprised to see me.
"You came back," he said.
May you like
"You said to be available," I said. "I brought my statement. In my own handwriting. And I want to show you why I stayed. If HR asks."
He held the door open. Down the hall, the marble table was empty, clean, waiting. The supervisor's office door was still closed. The silver terminal sat dark. And upstairs, somewhere, Dave was waiting with the camera footage that would finally show who had stood at that table at 15:07 while I was scrubbing the other room.
