Chapter 18: Evidence

I have seventeen photographs, a spreadsheet with forty-three data points, and a knot in my stomach the size of a fist.

Here’s what I’ve learned about evidence: it doesn’t care about feelings.

The photographs don’t know that Silas’s mother is dying. The spreadsheet doesn’t care that he gave me $600 in cash, or that he sold his bike, his guitar, and his TV. The numbers just sit there, neutral and cold, adding up to something I can’t ignore.

$1,247.85.

That’s how much money has disappeared from The Clovers over the past ten weeks. Not a fortune, not enough to bankrupt the restaurant or put anyone on the street. But enough to notice. Enough to matter. Enough to get someone fired.

I’ve been putting this off for weeks. Telling myself I needed more evidence. Telling myself I needed to understand. Telling myself that Silas’s reasons mattered, that his mother’s cancer changed things, that there was a version of this story where I could save everyone.

But there’s not. There’s just the evidence. And the evidence says he’s stealing.

The Compilation

I spread everything out on Willow’s bedroom floor.

The photographs are organized by date. Seventeen of them, each one showing the register tape from a night when the count was short. Silas’s name is on the schedule for every single one.

The spreadsheet is printed on three pages. Forty-three data points. Dates, amounts, managers on duty, day-of-week patterns. The highlights are color-coded red for shortages, green for balanced nights, and yellow for Silas’s shifts.

The notebook, open to the most recent page. The confession I wrote after Silas told me about his mother. The license plate number. The address on Cedar Street.

The envelope of cash. $600. Silas’s repayments are sitting in my backpack like a time bomb.

Willow sits cross-legged on the floor, looking at everything. Her face is unreadable.

“This is...” she starts.

“I know.”

“Anyone who sees this would know. Marlene would know. The police would know.”

“I know.”

“So why haven’t you shown anyone?”

I picked up one of the photographs, the first one, from the first shortage I noticed. $14.30. It seems so small now.

“Because I keep thinking about his mother,” I say. “And I keep thinking about what I would do. And I keep coming up blank.”

Willow takes the photograph from my hand. She sets it down with the others.

“Maybe that’s the answer,” she says. “Maybe you’re not supposed to know what you would do. Maybe you’re just supposed to do something.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She puts her arm around me. I lean into her.

“What if I’m wrong?” I ask. “What if I’m seeing patterns that aren’t there? What if Silas is innocent and I’ve been building a case against him for no reason?”

“Then you apologize. You move on. You learn something.”

“And if he’s guilty?”

“Then you do what you have to do.”

I close my eyes. The evidence is spread out on the floor. Seventeen photographs. Three pages of a spreadsheet. A notebook full of secrets. An envelope of cash.