Chapter 3 - The SuspensionTodd closed the break-room door behind us, trapping the smell of burnt coffee and disinfectant.

"Naomi, I'm placing you on administrative leave," he said. "Paid, pending review."

"A review of what? A customer throwing money?"

"Corporate received a complaint that you threatened her."

Dad set his tablet on the table. "Who called corporate?"

Todd swallowed. "I don't have that information."

"Then call whoever does."

"Dad," I said quietly.

He stopped. I didn't want him to solve this with a phone call that would leave everyone whispering I only had a job because of him. I'd worked mornings and nights for eighteen months, and my coworkers knew I stayed when someone got sick. I wanted that to mean something.

"I'll take the leave," I told Todd. "But put the allegation in writing, and preserve every camera angle from today."

Todd looked genuinely surprised. "All right."

I walked out through the employee entrance while coworkers pretended not to stare. My friend Lena followed me into the alley, still wearing her green produce-department gloves.

"You're trending," she said.

I stared at her phone. The clip began after Vivian dropped the money. It showed me standing still while Vivian raised her voice. The caption read: ENTITLED CASHIER THREATENS LOCAL PHILANTHROPIST.

"She cut the beginning," I said.

"And there's more." Lena scrolled. "Some account called FairCustomers posted your employee ID."

My own address appeared in the comments. Someone had posted a photograph of my mother outside our apartment building.

Dad walked into the alley. I showed him the screen.

He didn't swear. That was how I knew he was furious.

"Come home with me," he said.

"Mom's at the clinic. She'll worry if I'm not there when she gets back."

"I'll send a car for her."

"She's not a package."

His face softened. "You're right. I'll ask her."

We stood in uncomfortable silence. He'd been absent for years when I was little, building stores and fighting lawyers, and we were still learning how to speak without reopening old wounds.

"Why did Marcus call?" I asked.

Dad reached into his pocket and showed me a photograph of a paper marked BOARD CONSENT. Beneath a block of dense legal language was my signature.

I had never seen the document before.

"Someone filed this yesterday," he said. "It transfers your voting rights."

My chest tightened. "That's not my signature."

"I know."

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Then Lena's phone buzzed with another clip. Vivian was on camera again, this time saying, "She should be grateful she still has a job."

The clip had been posted from Bellwether's official corporate account.