The kitchen smelled like reheated beans and tension.
Mia stood just beyond the doorway, spine aligned with the wall, journal clutched tight beneath her coat. The dim bulb overhead hummed with fatigue, casting a tired yellow over the cracked linoleum and the stacked envelopes by the breadbox.
Inside, Sarah's father hunched over the table, ledger open, cigarette trembling at the corner of his mouth. He flipped through the pages with practiced irritation. The stub of a pencil tapped against a line item: "Sarah - wages."
"I'm telling you," he muttered to the man seated across from him, a neighbor or cousin—Mia didn't recognize the voice. "That girl doesn't know what to do with cash. Leaves it lying around. Half the time, she forgets to even open her pay envelope."
The other man grunted. "So you keep it for her."
Her father smirked. "Someone has to."
Mia's fingers tightened around the spine of her journal.
She knew Sarah's pay was handed in cash. Folded into paper envelopes. Stamped and initialed. Kept in a drawer. Locked.
Her father reached for a ring of keys on a hook and jangled them meaningfully.
The man across from him said, "You just need to say she agreed to it. Who's gonna ask?"
Mia took a slow step back. Her pulse beat in her ears, slow and heavy.
She reached for her pen and began writing, nearly blind in the hallway's dark:
Intercepted Dialogue — Subject: J.H. [Father]. Content: Seizure of earnings. Language indicates intent to defraud. Target: Sarah.
Code Priority: High. Ethics breach imminent.
She turned the page.
She wrote in code. Her old shorthand.
WX-Delta = Drawer, kitchen, second left.
LockID = brass, key #3 from ring.
FlagStub = "Sarah - wages". Quantity: 3 units visible.
She closed the journal.
The conversation inside had shifted to football. Beer cracked open. The men laughed.
She used the distraction.
Quietly, she moved down the hallway and ducked into the narrow laundry closet. A box of broken clothespins spilled over her shoe. The floor was sticky in one corner. A cobweb tickled her cheek.
She reached for the vent grill and slid it aside.
Behind it, a sliver space. Dry. Safe.
She tucked the journal inside.
Later, at the library, Mia replicated her notes in cleaner ink.
She folded the record into a second journal—coded, unlabelled.
Operation: Lockout
Goal: Remove or nullify father's access to Sarah's earnings. Maintain anonymity. Avoid retaliation chain.
She considered options:
— Anonymous call to employer?
— Tamper with ledger?
— Relocate envelopes?
Each carried risk. All could backfire.
She underlined: Do not involve Sarah. Yet.
The following evening, Mia returned.
The house was dark except for the hallway lamp. A flickering orange glow barely reached the floorboards.
She entered through the side gate. Her footsteps were soft on damp concrete. The kitchen window was cracked open. She could hear the fridge humming.
The drawer squeaked when she opened it.
Inside: three envelopes.
One read "SARAH." In red. Capital letters. Slanted script.
She opened it, not to take, but to confirm: cash. Folded bills. Recent. Neatly stacked in threes. Twenty, twenty, ten.
A receipt was tucked in the back. Mia unfolded it. Dated four days ago. Sarah hadn't seen this.
She returned everything.
Except she added one item.
An old coin.
A Liberty half dollar. Tarnished edges. Cold from her coat.
She taped it to the bottom of the drawer, where fingers wouldn't see it unless someone felt along the underside.
Its face read: "Liberty."
Beneath it, she wrote in pencil:
Insurance.
Let him wonder.
Let doubt do its work.
The next day, she waited nearby. Watched him enter the kitchen. Open the drawer. She couldn't see his face, but she heard the sudden pause. The sound of something being pulled loose. Then the drawer slammed shut.
He said nothing.
But later, Sarah came home and walked to the back of the house. Ten minutes later, she walked out again. Confused. Quiet.
Mia wrote:
Artifact delivered. Disruption triggered. Behavioral shift likely.
In the margins:
He knows someone is watching. Let him stay afraid.
The final measure was small.
She tucked a second envelope inside the ledger. It held no money. Only a slip of paper that read:
"Next time, someone asks."
No signature.
Just threat.
Fictional. But enough.
He didn't confront Sarah. He didn't mention it.
But when Mia checked again, the drawer was locked with a new padlock.
And the envelopes were gone.
Nowhere visible.
She stared for a long time.
Then wrote:
Phase II initiated. Traceability obscured. Continue monitoring.
At night, she stood beneath the lamppost across from the house. The upstairs light turned off earlier than usual.
She let herself believe, for a moment, that the Liberty coin remained.
Waiting.
A weight beneath his theft.