Bullies Targets The Wrong A Waitress — Unaware She's A Karate Black Belt Working Part-Time
Chapter 15
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Dotty didn't sleep well that week. Joe noticed it in small ways: the extra cup of coffee her grandmother poured herself before 6:00 in the morning; the way she checked the mailbox twice some days, like the second look might change what was inside it; the way her hand rested a little too long on the glass case by the register, the one still holding a crack along its corner.Joe wasn't sleeping much better herself, if she was honest about it. She kept replaying the moment Braden's hand had knocked the badge to the floor, kept hearing the small, sharp sound of glass cracking over and over in the quiet part of the night when nothing else was there to distract her. She told herself it was just a badge, metal and a little enamel, nothing more. Some nights that was almost convincing.On the fifth morning, Dotty made a decision. "I'm going to see him," she said, buttoning her coat."See who?" Joe asked, though she already knew."Marcus Whitfield. Face-to-face. I want to hear whatever he has to say, looking him in the eye when he says it.""I'm coming with you," Joe said."You have a shift.""Dina can cover an hour. This matters more."Dotty looked at her for a long moment, the kind of look that weighed pride against worry. "All right," she said finally. "But you let me do the talking.""I will," Joe said. She mostly meant it.Whitfield Property Holdings had an office on the newer side of town, in a building made of glass and pale stone that looked like it belonged somewhere much bigger than this county. The lobby smelled faintly of fresh paint and expensive coffee—nothing like the diner at all. A row of framed photographs lined one wall: ribbon-cuttings and groundbreakings, Marcus Whitfield shaking hands with men in suits Joe didn't recognize. Dotty glanced at them without comment, her chin lifted the way it always was when she wanted to look steadier than she felt.The receptionist, young and polished, asked if they had an appointment."No," Dotty said. "But he'll want to see us anyway."Something in her voice must have carried weight, because the receptionist made a call, and five minutes later, Marcus Whitfield came out himself. He was tall, silver at the temples, dressed simply but expensively—the kind of man who never had to raise his voice to be heard."Mrs. Carter," he said, extending a hand. "I've been expecting you might stop by.""Have you?" Dotty said, not taking the hand.He let it drop, unbothered, and gestured toward his office. "Please, let's talk somewhere more comfortable."His office overlooked the edge of town—a view that Joe realized slowly included the rooftop of the diner itself, small and red in the distance. She wondered if he'd chosen this office for that reason, or if it was simply a coincidence that felt heavier than it should. A single framed photograph sat on his desk, angled slightly away from view, close enough that Joe caught only the edge of it: a young man standing beside an old truck, squinting into the sun.