Page 132 of Threaded Lies

“I’ll give you until the end of the day, and then I’ll say something,” I threaten.

“Funny,” Porter says with a roll of his eyes. “You can’t prove a thing.”

“The video on my phone can though,” I bluff. For a brief moment, I think I have them. They glance nervously at each other moments before Williams throws his head back and laughs.

“Good one, Simpson. If you had it, you would have already shown it,” Rothschild says.

“Fuck off, dude,” Williams says as he strides off the green.

I have visions of jumping on his back and tackling him to the ground. Something. Anything. To hurt him a fraction of the amount he’s hurt me and my family.

But instead, I stand there on the edge of the fairway in my crappy uniform while they wear their fancy clothes, and know I have nothing on them.

Truth be told, I can’t say much to management other than I overheard them.

I don’t know what they were wearing.

I didn’t see them physically take the money.

I didn’t report it when it happened.

Now it’s two weeks later, and I look complicit because I didn’t say a fucking word.

That truth owns my thought the rest of the day. Through cleaning clubs and washing golf carts and then later washing down the patio. I might be a jack-of-all-trades here—willing to do the work that no one else will—but that doesn’t give me any more clout than the rest of the workers.

And it doesn’t make me feel more confident when I trudge to my manager’s office.

“Hey, Simpson,” Gary says somberly when I walk into his office. “Thanks for coming in.”

“Sure, but you say that like you called me in here.”

His eyebrows narrow. “Ralphie didn’t ask you to come see me?”

“No. I…” Shit. Why is he summoning me? “I came to talk to you about the Memo situation.” I draw in a deep breath. “I know who took the money.”

Gary leans back with his arms over his chest and studies me. “You do?”

“Yes. I was in the locker room and I heard them talking about it.”

“Who is them?” he asks, his voice void of all emotion.

“Rothschild, Williams, and Porter.”

He’s quiet for a beat. A beat I read as him knowing the complexity of the situation of an employee accusing the golden children of the club of stealing. But when he speaks I’m feeling less certain of my footing. “Funny seeing as how they all came forward and said they were in the locker room and saw you stealing it.”

“What?” I shriek.

He nods. “Yep. All three of them identified you as the person left in the locker room that day. Identified you by name.”

I laugh because that’s the only thing I can do. “That’s crazy, you know that?”

“So is accusing them of stealing,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“You believe them.” My voice is barely audible.

“I think it’s a hard stretch to believe the kids who have more money than God would need to steal from the tip jar while there is another kid broke as hell being accused.”

“Just because I’m broke doesn’t mean I’d steal. I’m not like that,” I argue with eyes wide and a plea in my voice.