Chapter 3 - Clipboard Held With Both Hands
I didn't stand up. That was the only control I had left, so I kept it.
The marble was cold through my dress. My feet ached from the walk across the parking lot, grit still stuck between my toes, and the pile of dirt sat less than a foot from my right knee. Nobody had touched it since I'd set down beside it. I could hear my own breathing, too fast, and I tried to slow it.
The manager stared at Marcus, then at me, then back at Marcus. Her mouth opened and closed. She lifted the clipboard until she was holding it with both hands in front of her blazer, knuckles white around the edges. It looked like a shield.
"Okay," she said. Her voice came out higher than before. "Okay. If you're — if that's true, then this is simple. Procedure. I need ID."
I looked up at her. The recessed spots were bright behind her head and made my eyes water.
"I don't have my bag," I said.
"Everyone has ID," she said. She tapped the clipboard once with her thumb. "I can't just take his word for it. A man walks in off the street and says —"
"He didn't walk in off the street," one of the women in the crowd said. It was the older one in the black dress, the quilted bag tucked under her arm. "He came in with a car."
The manager's eyes flicked to her. "Ma'am, please—"
"No," the woman said. "We heard what you said to her."
Phones were already out. I saw two screens raised near the entrance, angled down at me. The red recording light blinked on one of them. A younger woman in a neutral dress whispered, "Are you getting this?" and the other nodded without looking away.
The manager saw them at the same time I did. Her chin lifted.
"Ladies, I'm going to have to ask you not to film inside the store. It's company policy."
Nobody lowered a phone.
"You didn't have a policy problem a minute ago," the older woman said. Her voice was even. "When you were calling her trash."
A sales associate appeared from behind the glass counter with a white towel and a spray bottle. She hesitated at the edge of the crowd, eyes on the manager, waiting for a nod.
"Clean that up," the manager said quickly, jerking her chin toward the dirt. "Before — just clean it."
The associate stepped forward.
"Don't." Marcus moved one step sideways, just enough to put his shoulder between her and the pile. He didn't raise his voice. "Leave it."
The associate froze.
"Sir, you don't work here," the manager said. "You can't give orders on my floor."
"That soil stays where it is," Marcus said. He kept his sunglasses on. I couldn't see his eyes, but his breathing was steady. "It's evidence of what happened here."
I felt something loosen in my chest. I put my hand flat on the marble, close to the dirt but not touching it.
"Please," I said. My voice sounded thin. "Please leave it. Just for now."
The manager looked down at my hand, then at the dirt, like she was seeing it for the first time as a problem instead of a mess. Dark crumbs had scattered across the white tile. A footprint, my footprint, edged in soil.
"This is insane," she said under her breath. Then louder, to Marcus, "What SUV? What are you talking about? Anyone can park out front."
"Black Escalade," Marcus said. "Plate ending 4-7-1-9. Driver's log shows pickup at the owner's residence at nine-forty and arrival here at ten-oh-five. Store cameras will show we parked in the loading zone."
The crowd shifted. One of the women turned toward the entrance to look. Through the glass doors I could see the daylight glinting off a black hood.
The manager's grip tightened on the clipboard. She flipped the top page over like she needed something to do with her hands.
"Fine," she said. "Fine. If you won't show ID, I have to escalate. I'll call my district contact."
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She pulled her phone from her blazer pocket with her right hand while still clutching the clipboard awkwardly against her chest with her left. Her thumb hovered over the screen.
Nobody moved. The phones kept recording. The dirt stayed on the floor. I stayed on the floor beside it, looking up, waiting for her to make the call.
