Chapter 9 - Fifty-Two Against Thirty-Two
Marta spread the notebook open on our apartment table and held the pages flat with both hands. The paper was creased from being folded into her sock drawer all week. Seven days of blue ink, start times and end times in my handwriting, initials in hers where she had seen me leave or come home.
We added it twice. I ran my finger down the column and whispered the numbers. She used the calculator on her old phone and nodded after each one.
"Fifty-two," she said. "You worked fifty-two."
I stared at the total. My shoulders ached just looking at it. Late nights after the dinner parties, early mornings before Daniel was awake. I had written down every extra half hour Mrs. Keller from the agency told me not to log.
Marta pulled her pay slip from under a magnet on the fridge. It was thin paper, BrightNest Staffing across the top. Regular hours: 32. Overtime: 0. Net pay calculated on thirty-two.
"That's twenty missing," she said. "Same as mine last month. Almost to the hour."
I felt sick. Not surprised, just confirmed. I folded the slip back exactly where it had been. We didn't say theft out loud in the apartment. We had learned not to.
The next morning I took the notebook to work in my tote bag and didn't open it once inside the house. I kept thinking about what Daniel had said in the kitchen about keeping originals out of the house. I understood now. If anyone found that log in my room, they'd call it a mistake. Or a lie.
After my shift, Marta drove me to the gas station off the county road. We parked under the far light near the air pump, away from the cameras by the doors. The lot smelled like gasoline and hot asphalt. A truck idled a few spaces over.
I sat in the passenger seat with the notebook on my knees. My hands were shaking enough that Marta had to hold the pages down for me. I used my phone and took a photo of each page, waiting for the focus to sharpen before I tapped. Four pages. I checked each one for glare from the overhead light.
"Do it again for the first one," Marta said. "Your thumb's in it."
I retook it. When I was done, I slipped the notebook back into my tote and zipped it. The photos stayed on my phone, not printed, not sent yet. Off the property. That was the rule we had made.
"Are you sure?" Marta asked.
I watched a car pull through the lot and leave. "If I show him in the house, it's his house. Cameras, speakers, everything. If I show him outside, it's my choice."
She didn't argue. She drove me back by a longer way so we wouldn't pass the agency office.
I texted Daniel from the bathroom that night after dishes. Just a short message. Can I meet you after shift tomorrow? Off property. Diner on the county road. It took me ten minutes to press send. He answered in less than a minute. Yes. Whatever time works.
The diner was almost empty the next evening. Fluorescent lights, cracked vinyl seats, coffee that tasted burnt. I was still in my jeans and sweatshirt from changing in the gas station bathroom. Daniel came in in a plain gray shirt and jeans, no watch. I almost didn't recognize him without it.
He slid into the booth across from me and didn't order at first. He just looked tired.
"You didn't have to come out here," he said quietly.
"I did," I said. I set my phone on the table between us. My breathing was loud to me. "It's fifty-two hours. They paid thirty-two."
I opened the photos and turned the phone toward him. He leaned in and scrolled slowly through all four pages. He zoomed in on the totals at the bottom. He didn't touch my phone except with one fingertip to move the image.
"These are your shifts?" he asked.
"One week. Marta saw most of them. She initialed."
He looked up at me. "Where's the notebook now?"
"At our apartment. Not in the house. Marta's keeping it."
He nodded, and something in his face settled. "Good. Don't bring it to work."
He asked if he could send the photos to himself. I said yes, and watched him forward them to his own number and then check that they had arrived. He didn't say much while he did it. The waitress brought him coffee he didn't drink.
May you like
When he put his phone away, he said, "Thank you for trusting me with this."
I wrapped my hands around my mug to stop them shaking. Twenty hours. It was no longer just a feeling in my stomach. It was numbers on a screen, saved in two places now, outside that house.
