Harold paused. He recognized that tone, smooth, deflective, the voice of someone who'd rehearsed the answer before the question was asked. "I hear you, Craig," Harold said. "Appreciate your time."
He hung up, stared at the phone for a long time. That night Harold drove to the flagship store alone, parked across the street, engine off. It was 9:15, closing time.
Through the glass he could see two young women behind the counter. One was wiping down the espresso machine. The other was on her phone, leaning against the register. A customer walked in, a man in work boots and a paint-stained shirt.
Harold watched. The cashier on her phone didn't look up, didn't greet him. The man stood at the counter for nearly a full minute before anyone acknowledged he existed. Harold gripped the steering wheel.
40 locations, thousands of employees, and the one store that was supposed to represent everything he believed in, the original, the first, the flagship, was rotting from the inside. He pulled out his phone and opened the employee schedule for the flagship. 14 names. Two kept appearing on every high-traffic shift, Tiffany Grant and Jenna Moore.
A third name caught his eye, Emma Sullivan. She was only scheduled for 5:00 a.m. openings and 10:00 p.m. closings, the dead zones, every single week.
Harold stared at that name, then he started the car.
Something was very wrong inside his own house, and he was going to find out what. The next morning, Harold Coleman did something he hadn't done in 3 years. He got dressed like a nobody. Worn jacket from the back of his closet, old baseball cap, no watch.
He left the Omega on the bathroom counter.
No car service. He took the bus. Rode it 14 stops to Colfax Avenue and walked two blocks to the Denver flagship of Iron Brew Coffee, the store he'd built with money he borrowed from his mother's retirement fund, the store where he'd poured the first cup himself and handed it to a stranger for free.
He pushed the door open. The bell above it chimed. Nobody looked up. Tiffany Grant was behind the register, phone in one hand, the other resting flat on the counter like she was guarding it.
Jenna Moore stood at the espresso machine, scrolling through something on her screen, a towel draped over her shoulder she clearly hadn't used. Harold stepped to the counter, stood there. 5 seconds, 10, 15. A young white couple walked in behind him.
Tiffany's head snapped up instantly, bright smile.
"Hey guys, welcome to Iron Brew. What can I get started for you?" She took their order around Harold, like he was a pillar, like he was furniture. He waited.
The couple got their drinks. They sat down. Tiffany went back to her phone.
Harold cleared his throat. "Excuse me, I'd like to order."
Tiffany looked up. Her eyes traveled from his cap to his jacket to his shoes, slow, deliberate, the way someone scans something they've already decided to throw away.
"What do you want?" Not a question, a verdict. A cortado, please, and a slice of banana bread. Tiffany tilted her head.
A cortado? She turned to Jenna. He wants a cortado.
Jenna snorted without looking up. Tiffany turned back to him, speaking slowly, the way adults speak to children who aren't theirs.
"Sir, do you know what a cortado is? Or do you just want a regular black coffee? Keep it simple."
Harold felt the heat climb his neck. He kept his voice level.
"I know what a cortado is. I'd like one, please." Tiffany shrugged, punched it in, didn't ask his name, just scribbled BC on the cup. He didn't ask what it stood for. He already knew.
He paid cash. Tiffany took the bills with two fingers like she was pulling a receipt from a wet floor, dropped his change on the counter instead of his hand. Three coins rolled. He picked them up one by one.
He took his cup and the banana bread to a corner table, sat down. The cortado was lukewarm. The banana bread was good. Actually, it was excellent.
The best thing on the menu, and he hadn't even known it existed. He took a bite.
And that's when he heard it.