The case slip is stamped

I held my ground and I got the slip. The supervisor looked at me and I watched him calculate whether I was going to make a scene in front of the other stylists. I could see him doing the math. He gave me the stamped case slip and I did not thank him. I should not have to thank someone for doing the bare minimum after they accused me of stealing. But I took the slip and I walked out with my spine straight because I know what this looks like from the outside — a stylist arguing with support staff. I know how it reads. I know who they will believe if this goes further.

At home I spread the folder open on the kitchen table and I sat there looking at it. The card. The recording. The receipts. The photo of my arm. The case slip now, with its stamp and its number, and for the first time it feels like something instead of just a pile of things I am hoarding because I do not know what else to do. Luis will look at the card tomorrow. I keep trying not to think about what he might find. I keep thinking about it anyway.

I called my sister and I said it went fine and she said good and I almost told her about the lobby camera catching him on the phone but I did not. She would say I am obsessing. She would say let it go. She does not understand that I cannot let it go because someone used me as a cover for something and I am still on the outside of that sentence, still looking in through glass I cannot break.

I checked the locks twice before bed. The folder is on the nightstand. I keep my hand near it when I fall asleep.