Chapter 3
He didn't let go of stub. Paper shook between his fingers. Ink had bled where payroll office stamped DEDUCTION - MEALS/HOUSING in block letters.
"Who does your timesheets?" he asked.
Voice low now. Not sharp like pantry doorway question. Controlled. Jaw still tight.
I stared at floor. Stone cold against bare feet. Spoon still in my hand. Rice had gone cold on plate.
"Mrs. Delaney," I said. "She signs hours. Every Friday."
He frowned. "Delaney signs for you?"
I nodded. Breath caught. Didn't want to say more. Said more anyway.
"She keeps logbook on shelf. Says hours must match house needs. Not clock."
He followed my eyes to shelf behind oak cabinet. Top shelf, glass jars pushed aside, black leather logbook sat wedged between pickled beans and flour tin. Spine cracked. Years of handwriting.
He stepped past me, careful not to brush plate on floor, pulled logbook down. Dust fell. Pages stuck together. He flipped. April, May, June. My name listed in Delaney's tight cursive: E. Hart - 32 hrs / 28 hrs / 30 hrs.
He held stub next to logbook. Same weeks. Stub said 32 hrs, 28 hrs, 30 hrs. But pay stub before that, March, had been 48 hrs. Same handwriting, different numbers.
"Whose signature is this?" He pointed.
Line at bottom: Employee signature. Looped E.H. Not mine. I'd never learned to loop E like that. Mine was small, hard, printed. His thumb rubbed ink.
"Not mine," I said.
He looked at me. Really looked. "You never signed?"
I shook head. "She said she'd handle paperwork. Said not to worry about office side. I needed job. Didn't ask."
Silence stretched. Hallway light hummed. Somewhere upstairs floorboard creaked.
"When'd hours change?" he asked.
"Late March," I said. Voice thinner. "She said budget cuts. Said I still had room and meals, so pay could flex. Said to be grateful."
He closed logbook slow. Knuckles white.
"Show me food allowance," he said.
No food allowance line on stub. Only deduction. $380 for meals/housing taken from $600 gross. Left $220 before tax. I hadn't seen food allowance ever.
"I ate leftovers," I said. Words rushed out before I could stop them. "Didn't ask for allowance. Didn't want to bother anyone. Plate from kitchen trash, meat staff didn't finish. Easier than asking. She said pantry not for staff meals after eight."
He stared at plate on floor. Rice clumped. Brown meat chunks congealed. Cracked porcelain. My spoon.
"You've been eating trash so you wouldn't ask?" he said.
I flinched. Eyes burned again.
"I didn't want trouble," I said. "Thought if I stayed quiet, I'd keep room."
He crouched then. Not standing over me anymore. Eye level. Black shirt pulled at shoulders. Expression still stern, but something shifted behind it.
He took plate gently from my lap. Set it on shelf. Then he stood, walked to kitchen doorway, flicked light. Kitchen cold, stainless counters, fridge humming.
"Come here," he said.
I didn't move. Feet stuck to stone.
"Please," he added. Softer.
I followed. He opened fridge. Shelves full. Covered plates, fruit, bread, roast from tonight. He pulled out fresh plate, not cracked, scooped rice, sliced roast, added greens. No trash. Real portion. Steaming.
He set plate on small kitchen table. Pulled chair out.
"Sit. Eat," he said. "Now. While hot."
Hands shook. I sat. First bite burned tongue. Didn't care. Tears came again, but different.
He leaned against counter, arms crossed, logbook and stub beside him.
"Delaney forged your name," he said. "Cut hours. Took food money. You covered for her because you feared losing room."
I nodded, mouth full.
He exhaled long. "I confront Delaney tomorrow morning. Eight. Office. You're there. I need you to say exactly what you told me. Can you do that?"
Fear spiked. Delaney controlled keys, schedule, references. She'd fired last girl for asking about overtime.
"What if she fires me?" I asked.
"She won't," he said. "I own house. She works for me."
He said it plain. Not boast. Fact I'd forgotten. He'd been distant figure in black shirt, not owner. Now owner.
May you like
He pushed glass of water toward me. "Eat. Sleep in your room. Lock door. Morning we fix this."
Pantry doorway stayed dark behind us. Logbook lay open, forged initials exposed under kitchen light.
