Then she looked back at Denise. “Your facility?”
Denise lifted her chin. “That’s right.”
A voice came from the doorway before she could say another word.
“Denise.”
Everyone turned.
Paul Mercer, the regional operations director, stood at the breakroom entrance in a dark coat, his face drained of color. He had arrived too late to stop the damage and just early enough to understand he was part of it. His eyes were not on Denise.
They were on Camille.
“Ms. Brooks,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know you were already here.”
The room froze.
Denise frowned. “Ms. who?”
Paul swallowed. “Camille Brooks.”
Denise’s face showed irritation first, then confusion, then the first flicker of fear.
Camille reached into her jacket and removed a slim black credential card. She held it up, not dramatically, not proudly, simply so the room could see it clearly.
“Camille Brooks,” she said. “Founder and chief executive officer of Harrington Supply.”
Nobody moved.
A plastic spoon slipped from someone’s hand and clattered against the tile. One of the assistant leads took a step backward. Denise stared at the card as if the letters might rearrange themselves into something survivable.
For once, she had no voice ready.
Camille put the card away. “You told me to scrub toilets.”
Denise opened her mouth. “I didn’t know—”
“That I owned the company?”
Denise’s lips trembled.
Camille’s eyes hardened, but her voice stayed even. “That is not a defense. That is the confession.”
Paul stepped forward quickly. “Ms. Brooks, I’m sure there’s context. Denise can be direct, but she runs a tight floor. Productivity numbers here are among the best in the region.”
Camille turned toward him slowly.
Paul stopped walking.
“Productivity bought with fear is not leadership,” she said.
He lowered his eyes. “Of course.”
“No, Paul. Not of course. If it were obvious to you, I would not have needed to stand in this room dressed like someone you believed had no power.”
Denise found her voice at last. “This is being blown out of proportion. I was enforcing standards. People here get lazy if you don’t stay on them.”
The older janitor lifted his head.
Camille noticed.
“What’s your name?” she asked him.
He blinked, surprised to be addressed directly. “Raymond, ma’am. Raymond Ellis.”
“Mr. Ellis,” Camille said, “has this happened before?”
Denise snapped, “Don’t answer that.”