CHAPTER FOUR: THE FIRST WRONG NAME
On Friday morning, my manager allowed me to take two hours away from the clinic to visit the city’s employment support office.
Celia Boone worked in a room lined with leaflets about apprenticeships and unpaid holiday wages.
She listened without interrupting as I described the meeting.
“I know four of those women,” she said when I finished.
“Two were told they were independent contractors, although they work under detailed production schedules.”
“Does that make a difference?” I asked.
“It can make an enormous difference, but somebody qualified has to examine their actual working arrangements.”
She would not promise an immediate victory, and I liked her better for it.
“There’s something else,” I said.
I showed her the catalog.
Celia turned the pages slowly.
“The city is co-sponsoring this presentation,
” she said.
“Vivian’s studio has been awarded a showcase position because it describes a community training program for women returning to work.”
“These women say there is no training program.”
“Then the organizers need to know exactly what they were told.”
She copied a public contact number onto a card and slid it toward me.
“Make sure nobody speaks on anyone else’s behalf without permission,” she added.
“These women have spent enough time being spoken for.”
When I returned home, Adrian was replacing damp insulation in the kitchen wall.
He handed me a small steel object wrapped in tissue.
“I found this behind the drainpipe,” he said.
It was the broken head of a short-handled mallet, its painted surface chipped along one edge.
“I don’t know who owns it,” he continued.
“We can’t assume it belongs to Vivian.”
“I won’t assume,” I said.
But I remembered her quick backward step beside Oscar’s flashlight.
At three, a uniformed police officer arrived to record the damage.
The officer, Leah Morgan, listened to our account and inspected the pipe section.
She explained that an arrest would require more than a neighbor behaving suspiciously.
“Document the repair and keep any communication you receive,” she said.
“If somebody admits responsibility, tell us rather than staging your own confrontation.”
After she left, Maisie came into the kitchen carrying her phone.
“Mum, somebody posted about our meeting,” she said.
The message was in a local neighborhood group under a newly created account.
It claimed we were planning to destroy a small business with false allegations and demanded that its supporters photograph our visitors.
The message included our street name.
I stared at the screen while Finn built a tower with blocks at my feet.
“The women didn’t agree to having their names shared,” Maisie said.
“And I’m not going to be the person who does it,” I replied.
I wrote a message to our guests warning them about the post without repeating the accusations.
Rosa called me within minutes.
“Two men are outside the workshop asking which of us was at your house,” she said.
“Don’t go outside alone,” I told her.
“I’m not frightened of two men,” she answered.
Then her voice changed.
“I’m frightened they know where my niece waits for the school bus.”
