Everything is still inside. My purse. My spare shoes. My jacket.
But the contents are disturbed.
My bag is sitting at a different angle. The zipper is half open.
Someone has been inside.
I close the locker again, my hands suddenly cold.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe someone was looking for supplies. Maybe Dickhead Donald wanted to steal back some of the cash Nico threatened him into giving me.
Maybe I’m just tired.
But the feeling of being watched doesn’t go away.
A week passes like that.
Every night feels worse than the last.
Donald refuses to close the restaurant even though we clearly don’t have the staff to keep up. Customers start complaining. Orders take longer. The new hires make mistakes constantly.
I corner Donald near the kitchen one evening.
“We should close for a few days,” I tell him. “Until we get a full staff again.”
His face turns red.
“Close?” He scoffs. “And lose money?”
“Or lose customers permanently.”
“I’ll take my chances,” he spits. Not seeing Nico around as much anymore has emboldened him into treating me like shit again. Whatever threat he’d gotten shoved down his throat, he clearly needs a repeat performance.
But he hasn’t fucked with my pay again, so that’s something.
He leaves early that night, like he always does, leaving me to handle closing again.
I pull out my phone and call Gabby.
She answers on the third ring.
“What?”
“You’re picking up Noah from daycare,” I tell her. “And staying as late as I need.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I told you I’m sick.”
“Youcalled insick,” I correct. “But you weren’t.”
“Yes I was! You can’t?—”
“If anything had happened to him,” I cut her off calmly, “that would be child endangerment. I would have made sure you got dragged out of whatever warehouse you were letting people snort coke off your ass in?—”
“Snort coke? Wha?—”
