She watched the Hudson go dark outside her window. "I'd take the over."
He laughed. The kind of laugh men use when they know better and have stopped saying so. A long pause on the line. "21 days, Amelia. Anything happens to you, I'll handle it. Pen, camera, brass scoop. Same as always."
"Same as always," he said.
She hung up, folded the apron on the counter, pinned the name tag "MIA" to the front, slid the brass scoop into the pocket. She stood at the counter a long minute. The apron smelled like industrial detergent. The name tag said MIA in block letters. She tested the pen camera against the kitchen tile. Red light, steady. She tucked it next to the scoop. Outside, Manhattan went on without her. Boston did not yet know she was coming.
Stillwater Roasters, Boston flagship, opened at 6:30 a.m. The smell hit the sidewalk before the door did. Roasted Sumatra, cardamom, floor cleaner. Amelia clocked in at 6:22.
Lillian Hartley showed her where the time card went and which switch turned on the back ovens. Lillian was 52, 9 years at this store, hands like a woman who had done dishes for a living.
"You ever pulled milk?" Lillian asked.
"Two summers in college."
"Where?"
"A diner in New Jersey."
Lillian raised an eyebrow. "Cute resume. Don't tell the boss."
"Why?"
"He likes thinking he taught everyone everything."
Jamal Foster came in at 6:35. 19. Northeastern hoodie under his apron, black. He didn't make eye contact with anyone, including the espresso machine.
"That's Jamal," Lillian said. "Don't take it personal. He's just careful."
Sienna Cole arrived last. 25. Anxious smile. Three rings on one thumb. "First day?" she asked Amelia.
"First day."
"You'll be fine. Just don't be here when she comes in."
"Who?"
"You'll know."
At 7:42 a.m., Vanessa Holloway came in. Black coat, red lipstick, sunglasses she did not remove. Daniel Whitmore came around the counter and kissed her at the register. Customers looked away. Lillian looked at the floor.
"Flat white oat. Not too foamy."
Jamal pulled the shot. He set the cup on the marble pickup pad. "Flat white, ma'am."
Vanessa lifted the lid, sniffed. "Too foamy."
"Sorry, ma'am. I can..."
She poured it on the counter. The liquid ran across the marble and over the edge onto Jamal's sneakers. "Make it again and learn English."
Jamal stood still. Daniel walked around the counter. "Jamal, apologize to the lady."
"For what?"
"For the time you're wasting."
Jamal looked at the floor. "Sorry, ma'am."
"Louder."
"Sorry, ma'am."
Vanessa held up her phone. The little red dot blinked. "Say it to the camera."
He said it to the camera. Amelia did not move. She wiped the same square of marble three times. The cloth came back brown, then white, then brown again. She watched Daniel's hand on Vanessa's lower back. She watched the customer in the corner raise her own phone. She watched Lillian look at the floor and not the camera and not the boss.
Vanessa dropped a penny in the tip jar. "For the trouble." Then she ordered her flat white again, drank half of it, and left. The door chime rang once on her way out.
The store stayed quiet for a beat. Then the espresso grinder kicked back on. Daniel turned to Jamal. "Lose the attitude before lunch or lose the shift."
Jamal nodded, did not speak. He went back to the milk pitcher. His hands shook once, then stopped.
Amelia carried the second flat white to the bus tub, stacked the spilled cup on top, walked to the back hallway, pushed open the door to the staff bathroom. She did not cry. She pulled out the burner phone, opened the voice memo app, pressed record.
"Day 1, 7:58 a.m. Holloway entered 7:42. Whitmore complicit. Foster forced to apologize on camera. Spill staged. Penny in jar. Hartley witness. Cole witness. Multiple customer witnesses. Phone footage taken by white female mid-30s plaid scarf. Try to identify her on the way out."
She paused. "Holloway's left hand. Wedding ring on her thumb, not her finger. Not Whitmore. That ring is married money. Note it."
She stopped recording, slid the phone into her sock. Her right hand drifted to the apron pocket. Her fingers found the brass scoop, closed around the engraved letters. E. B. She pressed once. The way her mother used to press her thumb into a piece of dough, testing it, blessing it, putting it back. She washed her hands. She walked back out front.