Chapter 11 - The Night Shift
Monday evening began with a broken reservation and ended with somebody banging on our kitchen door.
The reservation was for twenty people. Ten minutes before service, the organizer called to cancel because she'd seen Lauren's photograph. I thanked her, hung up, and leaned against the counter long enough to feel angry.
"We can handle twenty empty seats," Becca told me.
"I know. I'm thinking about next week."
We kept cooking. Ezra moved tables closer together so the room didn't look abandoned. Our dishwasher, Marcus, put on music while he worked. Little things kept us moving.
At eight, a man wearing a Glasshouse staff badge appeared at the rear entrance. He insisted he had a delivery. When Marcus asked for paperwork, the man rattled the locked handle and called him names. Becca got me before anyone opened it.
Through the safety glass I could see a cardboard box on the ground and a man walking away. I told the team not to touch it, then called building security. There was no delivery label, only a folder of printed employee addresses inside. The security officer photographed the box and arranged for the police to collect it.
"I don't want to come in tomorrow," Marcus admitted. "My kids are on that list."
The fear in his voice made me angrier than the wine had.
"Take the day," I said. "You'll still be paid. And we're getting advice on how to protect everyone."
Leah joined us by phone. "Don't speculate about who sent it. Save the camera footage. I'll add this to the report."
Later, the scheduling company delivered an access log. One export of our staff directory had occurred on Friday morning, using a temporary consultant account issued during a planned software migration. The account had been created at the request of a woman named Patrice Grant.
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I didn't recognize the name. Becca did.
"Patrice," she said, "is Glasshouse's outside payroll consultant."
