The answer held no theatrical triumph.
It was simply the garment of a man who refused to let the past become an exhibit in somebody else’s development brochure.
He offered Caleb an orange.
“Your father used to bring these when the kitchen budget ran low,” he said.
Caleb put it in his bag instead of eating it.
He wanted to show Denise.
Chapter 7: Russell Version
Two mornings later Russell Price called Caleb three times before breakfast.
Caleb ignored the first two calls and answered the third while standing beside a laundromat dryer.
“I need you to come in and straighten something out,” Russell said.
“What exactly needs straightening?” Caleb asked.
“You know what happened was exaggerated.”
“You fired me in front of the dining room.”
“I made a management decision under pressure.”
“You told me I couldn’t have my final paycheck.”
Russell hesitated.
“Payroll will handle that.”
Caleb looked through the dryer window at his uniforms tumbling over one another.
“Then put everything else in writing,” he said.
Russell’s voice became cold.
“You’re making a mistake by getting mixed up with Arthur Voss.”
“That sounds like another threat.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
Caleb ended the call.
That afternoon, a former coworker named Nia Brooks met him at a cheap coffee shop near the station.
She had worked at the steakhouse for four years and had learned to keep personal copies of her schedules because Russell frequently changed shifts after arguments.
“He’s telling everybody you stole food,” she said.
Caleb stared at her.
“I paid for it.”
“I know.
I watched you ring it through.”
She slid a receipt across the table.
The order had been entered under Caleb’s employee number, followed by a cash adjustment matching the amount of his tip money.
Nia had printed a duplicate before Russell removed Caleb’s register permissions.
“Why did you save it?” Caleb asked.
“Because last year he accused me of giving away a dessert when the customer had paid for it through a gift card,” she answered.
“I’ve kept receipts ever since.”
Nia also described a private tasting that Russell had organized for the four businessmen the week before.
The restaurant had closed early for ordinary guests.
Russell had insisted that the cleaning crew leave through a side exit.
A delivery worker later found a sealed envelope in the trash labeled East Harbor Transition Budget.
Nia had never seen the document inside.
She didn’t pretend otherwise.
What she knew was that Russell had suddenly become extremely protective of Table Six and had received a promised management promotion from the restaurant group’s regional office.
