CHAPTER ELEVEN A — THE SUPERVISOR’S CHOICE

Felicity Arden called Simone from a parking lot after her evening shift.
She had been told to attend a disciplinary meeting the following morning and feared that Northbridge intended to blame her for assignments approved above her.
Simone arranged for an attorney to speak with her before the meeting.
I learned about the situation only because Felicity later chose to describe it at a public session.
She said she had inherited a list of volunteer assignments when she started work.
The list had been treated as part of the residents’ development plans, even though the assignments had no written training objectives.
“I thought somebody had approved it,” she told the audience.
“When I asked who, people told me not to make trouble.”
A woman in the front row asked why Felicity had continued sending residents to private homes.


Felicity did not pretend the question was unfair.
“Because I was afraid of losing my job,” she said.
“That’s the answer, and it isn’t a good excuse.”
A resident named Celeste stood near the aisle.
“You told me I could lose weekend leave if I refused to wash a donor’s windows,” she said.
Felicity nodded.
“I did.”
“I missed my sister’s birthday because of that.”
Felicity looked directly at her.
“I’m sorry.”
Celeste did not respond.
She sat down and folded her arms.
After the meeting, several people approached Felicity with questions about records and corrections to their housing plans.
Simone asked them to submit the questions through the advocate’s office so nobody had to confront a former supervisor alone.
Mina walked beside me to the parking lot.
“That was painful,

” she said.
“It needed to be specific,” I replied.
“Do you think Felicity will keep her job?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think she should?”
I considered the question.
“I think the people responsible for employment decisions need to look at what she did, what she knew, and what changed when she spoke.”
Mina sighed.
“You never give the satisfying answer.”
“Satisfying answers are often too short.”
She smiled briefly.
“That’s the first annoying thing you’ve said that I might put on a coffee mug.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN B — A PHONE CALL FROM THE OLD STREET

My former colleague Amira called on a Sunday afternoon.
She had heard about the conflict disclosure and wanted to know whether I was considering taking leave from the court appointment.
“I’m considering a lot of things,” I told her.
“Are you sleeping?”
“Some nights.”
“That’s not a useful answer.”
“It’s the only accurate one.”
Amira had spent ten years investigating residential care systems before joining the monitor’s office.
She understood the difference between seeing a problem and being allowed to act on it.
“I know how hard it is to step aside,” she said.
“Especially when the problem lands on your doorstep.”
“I feel useless.”
“You reported a crime against your home and disclosed a conflict.”
“That doesn’t feel like much.”
“It isn’t supposed to feel heroic.”
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
“The young people keep coming to the neighborhood for help.”
“Then make sure they reach people who can help without putting their housing at risk.”
“I have.”
“Good.”
She paused.
“And what are you doing for yourself?”
I looked at the boxes still stacked in the hallway.
“Unpacking.”
“Rowan.”
“I hired somebody to repair the gate.”
“That’s a start.”
I admitted that I had been postponing a decision about whether to remain in the house.
Amira did not tell me to stay or leave.
She asked what I had wanted the house to be before Patricia entered the story.
“A place for my mother to rest,” I said.
“A place where I could cook dinner without checking a work email.”
“Then don’t let your job become the only reason you stay.”
After we hung up, I turned off my phone for an hour and painted the spare bedroom.
I chose a soft green color my mother had liked in a magazine.
For the first time in days, I finished a task that had nothing to do with evidence, witnesses, or neighborhood politics.