It had been a slow, patient erosion, exactly the kind of campaign a careful person runs when they want a conclusion to feel like it grew naturally rather than being planted.

There had been cash that went missing and then, days later, mysteriously reappeared, so that a suspicion could be raised and then half-dropped, leaving a residue behind.

There had been broken glassware that no one remembered touching, small damages attributed vaguely to Teresa’s carelessness.

There had been a steady trickle of little complaints about her work, each one minor, each one plausible, each one delivered by Vanessa in a tone of reluctant concern, as though it pained her to mention it.

I had noticed these things.