Chapter 2 - THE FILE
Patricia was at my house before eight the next morning.
She brought coffee.
I brought grief.
Neither of us mentioned that Arthur’s chair was still pulled away from the desk like he might walk in and sit down.
Patricia had worked with us for twenty-two years.
She knew more about Bellamy & Rowe than most vice presidents.
She also knew exactly when not to talk.
She opened her laptop.
“I pulled Brittany’s history.”
“So did I.”
Patricia looked at me carefully.
“You read the complaints?”
“All eleven.”
“There are more.”
I stopped.
“How many?”
“Five that were closed without formal documentation.”
“Why?”
“Manager discretion.”
“Which manager?”
“Darren Cole.”
I knew the name.
Regional retail supervisor.
Aggressive salesman.
Average leader.
Arthur never trusted him.
I sat back.
“What did the complaints say?”
Patricia turned the screen toward me.
“Mostly the same pattern.”
Older customer ignored.
Customer redirected to clearance without asking.
Customer discouraged from trying on high-priced items.
One woman said Brittany laughed after she asked whether financing was available.
Another said Brittany looked at her shoes before deciding whether to help her.
I felt something cold move through me.
“This isn’t about the funeral anymore.”
“I know.”
“No. I mean it.”
I pointed toward the screen.
“If she had humiliated only me, I could call Ethan and handle it privately.”
“But customers are different.”
“Customers trusted my company.”
Patricia nodded.
Arthur and I had built Bellamy & Rowe from a twelve-hundred-square-foot storefront.
Our first winter, the heater broke.
We sold scarves wearing gloves.
Arthur once delivered a coat to a customer during a snowstorm because she needed it for her daughter’s wedding.
We grew because people came back.
Not because we made them feel poor.
Patricia clicked another document.
“There’s also an issue with employee reviews.”
“What kind?”
“Brittany has told several coworkers she’s being considered for assistant manager.”
“She told me the same thing.”
“She isn’t.”
“Not even close?”
“Her last performance score was sixty-four percent.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
“Then why does she think she’s being promoted?”
“Darren apparently told her she had management potential.”
“That can mean anything.”
“It can.”
Patricia hesitated.
“There’s one other thing.”
“What?”
“Brittany has had three schedule violations erased.”
“By Darren?”
“Yes.”
I stared at the screen.
“Why?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Find out.”
Patricia made a note.
I stood and walked toward the window.
The backyard looked wrong without Arthur.
His gardening gloves were still beside the shed.
The chair where he drank coffee was empty.
Grief came like that.
Not dramatic.
Not always tears.
Sometimes it was a pair of gardening gloves.
Sometimes it was an empty chair.
Sometimes it was realizing you had no one left who knew exactly what your silence meant.
Behind me, Patricia closed a file.
“Margaret.”
She almost never used my first name at work.
I turned.
“Don’t do anything because she insulted you.”
“I won’t.”
“She’ll say you used your power to punish her.”
“I know.”
“And because she’s family, every step needs to be cleaner than clean.”
“I know that too.”
Patricia watched me.
“Then what do you want?”
“Truth.”
She waited.
“I want to know who Brittany is when she thinks nobody important is watching.”
Patricia slowly nodded.
“We can use an independent retail auditor.”
“No.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“I’ll go.”
“Margaret—”
“She already thinks I’m poor.”
“That makes this personal.”
“That makes it useful.”
Patricia sighed.
“You’re seventy years old and impossible.”
“Arthur said the same thing.”
For the first time since the funeral, I smiled.
It disappeared quickly.
“When?”
“Friday morning.”
I nodded.
“No announcement. No security escort. No special treatment.”
“And if Brittany recognizes you?”
“She will.”
“What are you going to tell her?”
“The truth.”
Patricia frowned.
“You’re going shopping.”
Exactly.
But before Patricia left, her phone buzzed.
She read the message.
Her expression changed.
“What is it?”
She looked up at me.
“Another complaint just came in.”
“About Brittany?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Patricia turned the screen.
I read three lines.
Then I read them again.
A seventy-six-year-old customer claimed Brittany had told her:
“Maybe your daughter should shop for you. This section is expensive.”
My hands went cold.
At the bottom of the complaint was one final sentence.
I had to sit down when I read it.
May you like
The woman’s name was Helen Crawford.
Arthur’s older sister.
