Chapter 3 - The Waitress Accused of Stealing Five Dollars
Faith Whitmore had been fired for stealing the five dollars she used to buy my coffee.
I read the termination report three times.
Then I called Vivian.
"Where is she?"
"Still outside the café."
"Why?"
"Bradley called the police."
My blood went cold.
For five dollars.
A manager accused a struggling employee of theft after she'd shown kindness to a stranger.
And that stranger owned the entire company.
I drove to Lyndon Street myself.
No bodyguards.
No entourage.
Just the same gray hoodie I'd worn that morning.
When I arrived, Faith stood beside the front entrance holding a cardboard box.
Her apron lay folded on top.
Two officers were speaking with Bradley.
He spotted me immediately.
"You again?"
I stopped several feet away.
"What's going on?"
Bradley laughed.
"None of your business."
Faith looked up.
Her face changed.
"Oh, no."
I turned toward her.
"What happened?"
She swallowed.
"He says I took money from the tip jar."
"Did you?"
"I used five dollars from the shared tips to pay for your coffee. I intended to replace it after my shift."
I nodded.
"Did you tell him that?"
"Yes."
Bradley stepped closer.
"I don't care what story she's telling. Theft is theft."
I looked at him.
"Did you call the police over five dollars?"
"She's an employee. Employees have rules."
I glanced toward Faith.
Her eyes were red.
But she stood straight.
"Mr. Kane, she paid for my coffee."
Bradley sneered.
"Then she can explain that in court."
I took out my wallet.
Placed five dollars on the counter.
And asked for a receipt.
Bradley stared.
"What's that supposed to accomplish?"
"Replacing the amount, though it doesn't resolve whether she was permitted to use the shared tips."
One officer asked for my name.
"Ethan Mercer."
Bradley laughed.
"Sure you are."
I handed the officer my identification.
He examined it.
Then looked toward the corporate logo above the register.
His expression changed.
Bradley noticed.
"What's wrong?"
I looked at him.
"My name is Ethan Mercer."
He swallowed.
"The owner?"
"Yes."
Silence spread across the café.
The espresso machine hissed.
A customer lowered her newspaper.
Faith stared at me.
"You own this place?"
I nodded.
"All eighty-three locations."
Bradley's face went white.
Then he forced a smile.
"Mr. Mercer, I had no idea—"
"That's the problem."
He stopped.
"You had no idea who I was, so you thought you could treat me however you wanted."
I turned toward the officers.
"I'll provide any relevant information. I'd also like the original camera footage preserved."
Then I looked at Faith.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here before Bradley filed the accusation."
She studied me.
For a moment, I thought she might thank me.
Instead, she asked something far more important.
"If you own the company, why did nobody believe us when we complained?"
I had no answer.
Then Bradley's phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
His expression changed.
I saw the caller's name before he turned it away.
MARCUS VOSS.
May you like
And Bradley whispered into the phone:
"He's here. He knows."
