Derek crossed the department in long strides and stopped directly in front of Willa's wheelchair. "Open the bag," he said.
Willa looked at him. "Excuse me?"
"The bag attached to your chair. I need to inspect it. Routine security procedure."
"Why?" Nadine asked. "What are you accusing us of doing?"
"We have reason to believe merchandise was placed inside." His eyes remained on Willa. "If you have nothing to hide, you won't mind cooperating."
"I have nothing to hide," Willa answered. "And I haven't agreed to a search."
"Ma'am, refusal makes this much harder than it needs to be."
Willa thought about the years she had spent teaching employees how to handle loss prevention without degrading innocent people. There were methods for verifying an inventory discrepancy. There were policies, supervisors, documentation, and the simple courtesy of asking a question without presuming guilt. None of those things involved reaching into a customer's personal belongings because the manager disliked her appearance.
"I will not allow you to search my bag," she said evenly.
Derek reached behind the wheelchair anyway. Nadine moved to stop him, but his hand closed around the strap and he pulled hard. The strap caught on the armrest, and there was a sharp tearing sound as the fastening gave way. Willa felt the chair shift beneath her. Nadine cried out, but Derek already had the bag in his hand.
"Sir, stop," Nadine said. "That has her medication in it."
He opened the bag and tipped it over the jewelry counter. Small bottles bounced against the glass. Tissues scattered beside a wallet worn at the corners, a tube of hand cream, a handkerchief, and the envelope Willa had written for Amara. The sound of the bottles clattering across the hard surface seemed to fill the entire department. For a moment Willa forgot the argument and simply stared at her belongings exposed under the lights.
One bottle rolled close to the edge. Nadine caught it before it fell. She gathered the other items as quickly as she could, worried about labels, lids, and the little pieces of order she maintained for Willa every day. Some people looking on seemed fascinated. Others looked away, embarrassed by the intimacy of seeing a stranger's medication scattered in public.
Derek picked up the birthday envelope with two fingers. "What's this?" he said, as though it might explain the supposed theft.
"It's a card for my granddaughter," Willa replied. "Please put it down."
He glanced at the shaky handwriting. "Happy eighteenth, Amara," he read aloud, lingering on the imperfect letters. Then he dropped the envelope onto the glass. "Well, there's nothing from our store in here."
His statement should have been followed by an apology. Instead, he let the emptied bag fall onto the marble near Willa's feet. The snapped strap lay twisted against the wheel, and the empty fabric folded in on itself. He did not offer to collect it or replace the damaged fastening. He looked at Willa as though he had granted her some favor by acknowledging that he had found nothing.