Chapter 8
The public library study room smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and old carpet. Through the glass wall, people moved between the shelves with their heads lowered, carrying books and paper cups. Mateo sat across from me under a fluorescent panel that gave his light gray sweatshirt a washed-out look.
I arranged my copied attendance reports by month. He opened his laptop beside a folder of time sheets.
“These are the copies I kept for payroll disputes,” he said. “Damon shorted one of my checks last winter.”
His voice was controlled, but he didn't look at me.
I pulled up the publicly posted class calendar on my phone. The gym had removed older schedules from its main page, but monthly announcements were still visible on its public social media account. Each post listed rooms, class times, and instructors.
We started with January.
My report claimed a donor-funded conditioning session had met in Studio B from five to seven on a Tuesday. The public schedule advertised an adult boxing class in that room at the same time.
Mateo checked his time sheet. “I taught boxing that night.”
“Then the youth session couldn't have been there.”
“No.”
I marked the conflict in yellow. The sound of the highlighter dragging across paper seemed too loud.
By the fourth week, the pattern had stopped looking accidental. Donor-funded hours appeared in Studio B whenever a paid class already occupied it. On other nights, the reports assigned two programs to the smaller upstairs room, even though it couldn't safely hold both groups.
Mateo leaned back and rubbed both hands over his face.
“How many did you know about?” he asked.
The question landed quietly.
“Some of them,” I said. “Not every conflict. Damon gave me totals and told me the room changes hadn't been entered yet. After a while, I stopped checking because checking meant I couldn't pretend.”
Mateo stared through the glass wall. A father knelt near the children's shelves, helping a little girl zip her coat.
“You could've asked me.”
“I could have.”
He looked back at the reports. “But you didn't.”
“No.”
I wanted to tell him how Damon had stood beside my desk while I signed, how he'd mentioned references and loyalty without making a direct threat. Every explanation felt like an attempt to reduce what I had done. I kept my hands flat on the table instead.
Mateo turned another page.
His expression changed before he said anything. His mouth tightened, and a small line appeared between his eyebrows.
“What is it?”
He rotated the report toward me. Under instructor verification, his name appeared in block letters: MATEO REED.
The date was a Saturday in March.
“I wasn't there,” he said.
I checked the public schedule. “You weren't listed for any class.”
“I was in the payroll office that week because I took Saturday off.” He searched his retained time sheets, moving faster now. “Here.”
The sheet showed approved unpaid leave beside his name. No coaching hours.
We found another use of his name in April, then two in May. Each supposedly confirmed a donor-funded session. One time sheet placed him across town at a weekend fitness event the gym had promoted publicly.
“They used me to certify this.” His chair scraped backward. “My name is on reports I never saw.”
“I know.”
“No, Lena.” His voice stayed low because we were in a library, but the restraint sharpened it. “You saw at least some of these.”
Heat climbed into my face. “Yes.”
“And you never told me.”
“No.”
He stood and walked to the narrow window. Beyond it, evening traffic slid past on the wet street. I almost followed him. I almost said I was sorry in the way people sometimes said it because they needed the other person to stop being angry.
Instead, I waited.
When he returned, he didn't sit.
“I believe Damon pressured you,” he said. “That doesn't make this smaller.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“I used your silence without your consent. I let the paperwork make you part of it.”
His jaw shifted. For a moment, he looked as if he might pack everything away and leave. I wouldn't have stopped him.
Finally, he pulled his chair back to the table.
“I'll make a statement,” he said. “Not about Damon ordering anything. Not about what you knew. Only what I can verify myself.”
“That makes sense.”
“I want the wording to be mine.”
“It should be.”
He opened a blank document. We worked line by line. He identified the dates his name had been used, attached the corresponding time sheets, and noted the room conflicts shown on public schedules. He refused words like fraud and fabrication.
“I can say the sessions attributed to me were not coached or validated by me,” he said. “That's the fact.”
I nodded.
Near closing time, the printer released three warm pages. Mateo read every sentence twice. Then he signed at the bottom and wrote the date.
I placed the statement with the reports, but he kept one copy for himself.
Outside, the sidewalks shone beneath the streetlights. The gala was five days away. We had not proved who arranged the alley camera, and we had not proved who entered every false hour. What we had was narrower and harder to dismiss: rooms that were already occupied, time sheets created for another purpose, and Mateo's name attached to work he had never done.
At the curb, he stopped without turning toward me.
“I'm still angry.”
“You should be.”
May you like
His breath left slowly, visible in the cold air.
Then he walked beside me toward the parking lot, leaving a careful distance between us that I didn't try to close.
