Chapter 9 - The Office With No Windows
The back office was smaller than I expected. No windows, just a gray metal desk pushed against a cinderblock wall, a filing cabinet with a dented corner, and the hum of a mini fridge in the corner. The bright sales floor light didn't reach in here. A single overhead tube buzzed and made everything look washed out.
The manager went in first and stood behind the desk like it was a counter. She still held the clipboard tight against her stomach with both hands. I sat down slow in the folding chair across from her because my feet were still sore from the marble. Marcus shut the door behind us and stayed standing by it, his shoulders almost touching both sides of the frame.
Nobody spoke for a second. I could hear the muffled sound of the store through the wall, heels and low voices.
"I know this is irregular," the manager said. Her voice had gone thin and professional. "For loss prevention, we need to verify—"
"We will," Marcus cut in. His voice was quiet.
I reached into the small pocket sewn into the side seam of my dress. My fingers found the edge of my driver's license. Dad's lawyer had told me to always keep it on me during the visits. I set it on the desk and slid it forward.
She stared at it, then picked it up. Her eyes moved from the photo to my face and back. She swallowed.
"That's — this could be anyone," she said, but her grip on the clipboard loosened a little.
I pulled out my phone next. My hands were still a little shaky, and I had to wipe a smudge of dirt off the screen with my thumb. I opened the photo album and found the one I wanted. Dad and me on opening day three years ago, standing right by the front glass. He had his arm around my shoulders. Behind us you could see the same backlit shelves, empty then, and a banner that said GRAND OPENING. He was smiling so wide his eyes crinkled.
I turned the phone around and set it next to the license.
She leaned forward to look. The gold hoops swung a fraction. For a long moment she just breathed through her nose, fast and shallow.
"That's Mr. Hale," she whispered.
"Yes," I said.
Marcus stepped one step closer to the desk. "Ma'am," he said to her, not to me. "I've worked for Mr. Hale for six years. Private security. He sent me here this morning with the SUV because Miss Hale was doing a walk-through. She does them without notice."
The manager's head snapped up toward him. "Six years? I never saw—"
"You wouldn't," he said. "I don't work the floor."
The room felt even smaller. The fridge kicked on with a click. I watched her chest rise and fall under the black blazer. The top gold button caught the fluorescent light. Her breathing had shortened, little quick pulls that she tried to hide by pressing her lips together.
She put my license down very carefully, like it might break. She glanced at the clipboard, then back at me.
"I didn't know," she said. "If I had been informed that corporate— that ownership was visiting—"
"You were informed I was a person," I said.
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
I didn't raise my voice. My feet throbbed under the chair and I kept them flat on the cold concrete. I could still feel the grit between my toes.
I looked at her directly. "Why did a barefoot woman equal trash?"
Her mouth opened. No sound came out at first. She shifted her weight behind the desk and the clipboard tilted, papers sliding to one side. She caught them.
"I— we have a dress code policy for the boutique environment. It wasn't personal. People track in dirt, and—"
She stopped herself. Her eyes flicked to my feet, then away.
Marcus didn't move from the door. He just watched.
May you like
I picked up my license and put it back in my pocket. I left the phone with Dad's photo face-up on the desk between us. The buzz of the light kept going. Outside, someone laughed, then went quiet.
She had no script left. She just stood there, holding that clipboard like it was the only solid thing in the room, breathing too fast, waiting for what I would say next.
