Chapter 9 - Under the Sink
For several seconds I just knelt there with the brown paper bag in my hands.
The bottles were expensive enough that I had only carried them to tables with both hands.
Brunello Riserva. Barolo. Amarone.
Each bottle had a narrow white inventory sticker with Moretti’s printed in black at the top.
I did not touch the glass again.
“Chloe,” I said. “Go stand by the front door.”
She looked at my face.
“Am I in trouble?”
“No. You did exactly the right thing telling me.”
“Is it wine?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Victor likes wine.”
I nearly laughed.
“Front door, sweetheart.”
She hugged Mr. Buttons and walked away.
Mr. Keating was in the hall arguing with a locksmith about the replacement lock. I called him into the kitchen and pointed at the bag.
His face drained.
“I never saw that.”
“I believe you.”
“Grace, I swear-”
“I believe you.”
I took out my phone.
My thumb hovered over James’s name.
Then I stopped.
The old version of me would have called him first because he was powerful.
The version I was trying to become called the police non-emergency line first.
An officer came forty minutes later, photographed the bag where it sat, collected the bottles, and took statements from me, Chloe, and Mr. Keating.
Only after that did I call James.
He answered quickly.
“What happened?”
“That is becoming a disturbing way for you to answer my calls.”
A pause.
“Fair.”
I told him about the wine.
He did not interrupt.
When I finished, he said, “You called the police already?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The approval irritated me.
“I did not call you for permission.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t sound proud.”
Another pause.
“I am trying very hard to find the correct response.”
That almost made me smile.
“Try angry.”
“I am angry.”
“At me?”
“No.”
His voice dropped.
“At the fact that he entered your home with a key and planted property where your child could have found it.”
The word planted made the room feel colder.
“That’s what you think it was?”
“What else?”
I looked toward Chloe.
She was sitting cross-legged in the empty living room, whispering something to Mr. Buttons.
“I don’t know.”
James was quiet.
Then he said, “Grace, I need to tell you something before you hear it from someone else.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“The police found a draft incident report in Victor’s home computer. It claims restaurant inventory was discovered in an employee residence after an internal review.”
My mouth went dry.
“Which employee?”
“The name field was blank.”
I closed my eyes.
He continued carefully.
“The file was created December eighteenth.”
The day before Victor entered my apartment.
I leaned against the counter.
“So I was next.”
“That is what it looks like.”
I thought of Maya’s locker.
I thought of my own silence.
Victor had not invented a new method for me.
He had repeated one that already worked.
Because people like me had helped it work.
“I’m going to be sick.”
“Sit down.”
“Stop telling me what to do.”
“Then choose to sit down independently.”
I laughed despite myself, then immediately covered my face.
It turned into crying.
James waited.
When I could speak again, I said, “I helped him learn he could get away with it.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You were scared.”
“So was Maya.”
“That does not make Victor your creation.”
“No. But my silence was useful to him.”
James did not answer right away.
Then he said, “So was mine.”
I lowered my hand.
His voice sounded tired.
“Every employee who thought I wanted fear used my silence as evidence. Victor did too.”
Neither of us had anything comforting to say after that.
The next morning, the restaurant reopened for staff only.
No customers.
No cameras.
James had hired an outside payroll company, brought in a workplace safety consultant, and asked a local nonprofit worker center to send someone employees could speak to without management present.
He did not announce any of it like a hero.
He looked as though every new safeguard embarrassed him because it revealed what had been missing.
Maya came too.
She stood behind the bar with her arms crossed while the worker-center representative explained confidential reporting.
Afterward, she pulled me aside.
“The police called me about the wine.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For being the sequel.”
She snorted.
“That is a terrible apology.”
“I know.”
She leaned back against the bar.
“You know what’s weird?”
“What?”
“I spent months wanting Victor punished. Now that he might actually be charged, I don’t feel better.”
“Maybe punishment isn’t the same as getting your life back.”
She looked at me.
“When did you get wise?”
“Hospital coffee.”
“Powerful stuff.”
Across the room, Elias approached James.
They spoke quietly for a minute.
Then Elias handed him an envelope.
James looked at it and frowned.
“What is this?”
“My resignation.”
The room was loud enough that most people did not hear.
I did.
So did Maya.
James stared at him.
“No.”
Elias’s mouth twitched.
“That is not generally how resignations work.”
“Why?”
“Because I was supposed to be the man who told you what you didn’t want to hear.”
“You are doing that now.”
“Too late.”
James looked down at the envelope.
Elias continued.
“I didn’t steal anyone’s money. I didn’t plant wine. But I saw fear and called it discipline because that made my job easier.”
His eyes moved across the dining room.
“I need to stop being rewarded for that.”
James’s face tightened.
“You think leaving fixes it?”
“No.”
“Then stay and fix it.”
Elias shook his head.
“If I stay because you need me, I’m still making the decision around you.”
That sentence made James look almost angry.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
“When?”
“End of January. Long enough to transition security and operations.”
James folded the envelope once.
“Fine.”
Elias glanced at me.
“Also, your waitress is terrifying.”
“I heard that,” I said.
“Good.”
Since Christmas Eve, the room had not felt this close to normal.
Then the front door opened.
A man in a navy overcoat stepped inside carrying a camera bag.
Behind him was Victor.
Victor looked thinner than he had five days earlier.
He also looked calm.
“James,” he said. “We need to talk before your New Year’s dinner.”
James’s shoulders went rigid.
Victor nodded toward the man beside him.
“This is Daniel Reeves from the Boston Chronicle.”
The reporter raised one hand awkwardly.
May you like
Victor smiled.
“I thought this time we could all tell the truth in the same room.”
