Chapter 8
The diner was off Highway 31, the one with the chipped Route 66 sign that had been there since I was in high school. I parked in the lot under the buzzing floodlight and sat for a second with the engine running. My uniform was folded in a grocery bag on the passenger seat. I was back in jeans and my old gray hoodie, but I still felt like everyone could see the apron on me.
Maria was already inside. She'd texted me after I left the foundation tower — just "Come to Dot's. Bring nothing to sign." She was in a booth by the window with a woman I didn't know, maybe late forties, hair pulled back, wearing a plain navy cardigan over a t-shirt that said LEGAL AID on it in small white letters.
I slid in across from them. Maria reached over and squeezed my hand once, quick.
"This is June," Maria said. "She volunteers Tuesdays at the library. She said she'd talk to you, no charge, no file."
June nodded at me. "Emma. Maria told me a little. I'm not your lawyer, okay? I can't be. I can just tell you how this usually goes."
The waitress came over with coffee. June turned her mug around so the handle faced right. The diner smelled like fryer oil and cleaner, and the vinyl seat was cracked and taped with black electrical tape that stuck to the back of my leg.
I told them what happened at the tower. The form on the desk that wasn't an HR form. The way Mr. Whitaker said "a different kind of review." June listened without interrupting, her hands around her mug.
"Did you sign anything up there?" she asked when I finished.
"No," I said. "I didn't sign."
"Good," she said. "Don't. Not without someone reading it first."
She pulled a small notepad from her bag and tore off a sheet. "Here's the thing nobody tells staff," she said. "That ballroom has cameras. Every place like that does — chandelier room, fireplace wall, dance floor. But that footage doesn't sit there forever. Most systems loop every seventy-two hours. Some do seven days. But seventy-two is common for a venue that does weddings every weekend."
My stomach dropped. The gala had been Saturday night. It was Wednesday now.
"We're close," I said.
"You're close," she agreed. "So if you want that video to still exist next week, you have to make a written record that you asked them to keep it. Not a text. Not a phone call. A letter that says 'preserve.' You deliver it and you keep a copy with a stamp that says when they got it."
Maria looked at me. "This is where I need to tell you something else," she said. Her voice was lower. She glanced toward the counter where two cooks were talking. "In this county, Emma, hospitality is a small circle. You know that. One manager calls another. You get marked as difficult once, you don't work the pavilion, you don't work the country club, you don't work Christmas parties. I watched it happen to Carla two years ago after she complained about her checks."
"I know," I said. My throat felt tight. "I've worked with Carla."
"I'm not telling you not to do it," Maria said. She put her hand back on mine. "I'm telling you they will tell the next place you apply that you caused a problem at the Whitaker gala. Even if you didn't. That's how they protect the donors. Lauren's dad writes a fifty-thousand-dollar check every December. You fold napkins. They know who they'll keep."
June didn't argue with her. She just slid the notepad toward me and clicked her pen.
"You get to decide," June said. "But if you decide to ask for the video, you do it right. Keep it short. Keep it boring. No accusations. Just facts and a request."
She dictated and I wrote, my hand shaking a little at first. The pen bled through the thin paper where I pressed too hard.
Date: May 14. To: Venue Manager, Whitaker Ballroom & Events. Re: Request to Preserve Evidence. On the evening of May 10, 2025, during the Whitaker Foundation Gala, an incident occurred on the ballroom dance floor involving me, an employee, and a guest. I am requesting that you preserve and retain all video surveillance footage, including CCTV and security camera recordings, from 7 p.m. to 11 p.m. on May 10, 2025, covering the main ballroom, dance floor, and fireplace area, and not destroy, overwrite, or alter such footage pending further review. Please confirm in writing that this preservation is in place. Thank you.
June read it over my shoulder. "Add your full name and phone number at the bottom. And keep the language like that — neutral. You're not calling anyone a liar. You're just saying 'don't erase this.'"
I copied it again on a second sheet so it was cleaner. The diner's bell dinged every time the door opened and cold air came in. I could hear the highway outside.
Maria watched me finish. "You sure, mija?" she asked quietly.
I folded both sheets in thirds. The first one had my messy first draft with the ink smudge. The second one was straight.
I thought about the tower, the form, the way they'd said "if you make this bigger." I thought about my mom asking if I'd get my hours cut, and about Saturday night on that polished floor with everyone staring, and how quiet it had been after.
"I'm sure," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted, so I said it again. "I'm going to file it. Tomorrow morning, first thing, before my shift."
June nodded and took a sip of coffee. "Make two copies. Take one to the venue office and ask them to stamp your copy. Take the other to the sheriff's office — civil window, just ask for a time-stamped receipt. That way there's a record outside their building too. If they loop it after that, it's on them."
May you like
I tucked the letters into my hoodie pocket and zipped it shut. Maria paid for the coffee before I could reach for my wallet. Outside, the floodlight made my old car look gray and tired, but it started on the first try.
I sat there with the letters crinkling against my chest, not erased yet, not stamped yet, but written. For the first time since Saturday, I had something on paper that was mine.
