Two were from the restaurant.
The rest were from my mother and brother.
Ben had stayed awake until I got home, then spent an hour asking whether I needed to go to the hospital.
I’d told him I was physically fine.
I hadn’t slept much.
Now I sat on the edge of my bed staring at the missed calls.
The first voicemail was from a detective requesting a follow-up interview.
The second was from Mr. Harlan, confirming that I was not to discuss the incident with reporters and should direct any inquiries to the restaurant’s management.
The third was from Dominic Rinaldi’s office.
A woman introduced herself as his chief of staff.
“Mr. Rinaldi would appreciate an opportunity to speak with you about the documents from last night. Please contact us when convenient.”
I replayed that message twice.
Then I called the detective.
Her name was Elena Morales.
She asked me to come to the precinct that afternoon.
I agreed.
Before leaving, I checked my bank account.
There was enough money for groceries.
Not enough for Mom’s rent.
Not enough for Ben’s tuition balance.
I sat there calculating how many additional shifts I could work before the next deadline.
Then a message appeared on my phone.
It came from an unknown number.
You should have kept your mouth shut.
My stomach tightened.
Another message followed.
People who interfere in private business tend to regret it.
I took screenshots, preserved the messages, and called Detective Morales back.
She told me not to respond.
Then she asked me to bring my phone to the interview.
