“Faith.” Brett leaned back in his leather chair, slapping his Italian loafers onto the mahogany desk like he owned the world. “Take a seat. Shut the door behind you.”
The click of the latch felt final.
“I know I missed work,” I said, settling into the uncomfortable chair across from him. The old me would have groveled at a level one hundred. Would have made myself smaller, more palatable. But I was tired of shrinking. “I apologize. I did?—”
“That’s not what this is about.”
I bit my lip, waiting. Brett loved his power plays, loved making people squirm. The way he savored the silence, letting it stretch like taffy, reminded me of my third foster father. The one who’d make us kids stand in the corner for hours, waiting to find out what we’d supposedly done wrong. Power was a drug to men like them, and watching people cower was their favorite high.
“Do you know why I want to see you?” he questioned.
“I assumed it had to do with my absence.”
“Why else might I want to see you?”
My pulse kicked up. He knew. Of course he knew. Maybe my mug shot had made the rounds on every true crime blog in the state.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me.”
After a few theatrical swipes on his phone, he turned the screen and slid it across the desk. The headline hit me like ice-cold rain on a windy day.
MAN FOUND DEAD, SUSPECT NAMED: 33-YEAR-OLD FAITH MORRISON
“That’s you.”
My mouth went dry. “I can explain.”
“Can you?”
“However, unfortunately, I can’t discuss the details. My attorney insists?—”
“I don’t give a fuck what your attorney insists.” He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell the heavy scent of scotch on his breath at four in the afternoon. “Do you know what this looks like for our clientele?”
“Like you employ someone who hasn’t been convicted of anything?” Apparently, facing murder charges had obliterated my filter.
His eyes narrowed. “Like we employ someone who brings scandal to our establishment.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could say more, but?—”
“Why should I keep you on?”
I straightened my spine, channeling every ounce of professionalism I had left. “I assure you, this won’t affect my work. I’ve been here two years. Before this week, I never missed a single shift. I stay late for cleanup, cover for sick coworkers, and our regulars specifically request me. In fact, many of them?—”
“What reason would I have to keep you?” His voice dropped lower, and something shifted in his expression. Something that made my skin crawl.
I blinked. “Pardon?”
He stood, circling around the desk. “You know, Faith, you’resmart. Capable.” He stopped behind my chair, too close. “I want you to stay. I really do.”
His hand landed on my shoulder, thumb making strokes that made my skin crawl. “But you need to work with me here. Show me you’re … a team player.”
The blood roared in my ears. Many of my coworkers had vented about his inappropriate comments, his lingering stares, the way he’d “accidentally” brush against the female staff. None of us were brave enough to go to leadership. But this? This was next level.
And suddenly, I was fifteen again, trapped in the guidance counselor’s office while he explained how “special tutoring” could fix my grades. I was twenty-two, cornered in a storage room by a manager who promised me better shifts if I was “nice.” I was every age I’d ever been, in every situation where a man with power tried to use my body as part of the negotiation.
Not. This. Time.
“I am a team player,” I said carefully, shifting my shoulder away from his touch.
