Some donation bin? Broke into someone's house last night, did we? Put it down. This is what we deal with on Fifth Avenue now. Homeless men carrying stolen wedding photos.
Unbelievable. He held the frame higher, like a trophy. He tilted his head, mock studying the photograph. Then he tapped the glass with one polished fingernail, right on the woman's face. What was her name, old man?
Or did you forget? Maybe she's the one who threw you out on the street. Fletcher's hands trembled at his sides, just barely. Margaret Davis was crying now, quietly, behind her glasses. Her hand was at her throat, gripping a string of pearls she had owned since her wedding day.
She had stopped breathing for a moment, and now she couldn't seem to start again properly. Other customers had stopped pretending to browse. A man in a charcoal suit had his phone out now, too. So did the woman in the fur coat, the one Brandon had personally welcomed earlier. Her face was twisted in something close to disgust.
"That's enough," Margaret's voice cracked. "That is enough." Brandon ignored her. He was looking at Fletcher's face. Fletcher's face had gone very, very still. The kind of still that comes before something breaks.
Brandon tossed the frame onto a glass display case. The silver edge clanged against the glass. The wedding photo lay face down. He pulled out his phone. That's it.
I'm done playing nice. He dialed three numbers. Hello? Yes, I need an officer at Sterling Mason, 53rd and Fifth. We have an aggressive homeless trespasser refusing to leave.
He's threatening staff. Yes. Yes. Hurry. Fletcher said nothing.
He didn't move. He looked at the picture frame face down on the glass. He looked at the white peony lying under the chair. He thought of Vivian. He thought of how he had told her, 2 hours ago, that the house they built together still stood.
He wasn't sure that was true anymore. Hannah was still recording. Her hands were shaking. Margaret crossed the marble floor and picked up the picture frame from the glass case. She turned it right side up.
She wiped the glass gently with the cuff of her cashmere coat. She walked back to Fletcher and placed it carefully in his hands. Then she bent down, slowly, painfully, with her cane, and picked up the white peony from under the chair. She handed it to him, too. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
"I'm so sorry." Fletcher closed his fingers around the flower. He tucked the photograph back into his coat, pressed flat against his chest, right above his heart. Outside, a siren bloomed in the distance. The woman in the fur coat finally spoke. Her voice was sharp, cultured, used to being obeyed.
"You should be ashamed of yourself." She was looking right at Brandon. Brandon's smile flickered. He opened his mouth to answer and didn't have one. He turned to Tyler with a smug, sharp smile instead. "Police are coming, Anderson."
"You want to be on record defending a homeless trespasser when they walk in here? Last chance." Tyler didn't answer Brandon. Tyler was looking at his phone. He had quietly texted Jonathan Williams, the company's COO, the moment Brandon had grabbed Fletcher's elbow. It was the protocol.
Any 911 call from a flagship store required immediate executive notification. Jonathan had replied with two words, "On my way." Tyler put his phone away. He didn't tell Brandon a thing. The siren grew louder. Blue and red lights began to wash across the bronze doors.
The store had gone completely silent. The jazz had stopped. The customers had stopped pretending to browse. Even the saleswomen at the back stood frozen. Brandon adjusted his suit, smoothed his hair, smiled the smile of a man about to be vindicated.
He had no idea what was actually about to walk through his door. Two officers stepped through the bronze doors. The first one was older, tall, salt and pepper mustache. His name tag read Bennett.
Brandon practically jogged toward him. Officer, thank God. This man has been harassing my customers, refusing to leave, threatening my staff.
Officer Bennett held up one hand. He was looking at Fletcher. His face went slack. His shoulders dropped. The clipboard in his hand froze halfway up.
"Mr. Sterling?" The store went still. Brandon blinked. "What?"
"Mr. Sterling, sir." Bennett took off his cap, actually took it off, held it against his chest. "Sir, are you all right?" Fletcher's voice was quiet.
"Hello, Harold."
"How's your daughter? She finished at Spelman?" "She did, sir. Graduated with honors. She still talks about that scholarship letter you wrote her."
"Tell her I'm proud." Brandon's mouth opened, closed, opened again. "Wait, wait. Hold on. Officer, you know this homeless guy?" Bennett turned his head slowly.
The look he gave Brandon could have cut glass. "Son, who do you think you're talking to right now?" "He's... he's a vagrant."
"He wandered in here." "Son, I'm going to ask you very, very carefully. Do you know whose store you are standing inside?"
"Of course I know. I'm the manager." The bronze doors swung open again. A tall, sharply dressed man in a navy suit walked in fast. Haircut close, glasses. He scanned the room in one motion.
Fletcher, Brandon, the photo frame, the broken bag strap, Tyler's tense posture, and his face went hard. He crossed the marble floor in seven strides. "Fletcher, my God, I came as fast as I could." He took Fletcher by both shoulders, looked him over. "Are you hurt?"
"No, Jonathan, I'm fine." "You're not fine. Look at you." Jonathan turned around, his eyes locked onto Brandon.
The temperature of the room dropped 10 degrees. "You," Jonathan said. "What is your name?" "Brandon Whitfield, sir. I..."
"I'm the chief operating officer of Sterling Mason. I sign your paychecks." And the gentleman you've been screaming at for the last 30 minutes He paused, just long enough.