I was wiping down the counter, exchanging pleasantries with a group of truckers near the jukebox, when the flash of red and blue lights outside made me pause.
The police.
A murmur spread through the bar as two uniformed officers pushed through the doors, their expressions unreadable. Caleb’s dad stepped out from behind the bar, his brows furrowed. “Evening, officers,” he said, his tone calm but cautious. “What seems to be the problem?”
“We’ve received a tip about underage workers being employed here,” one of the officers said, his voice cutting through the bar’s usual din.
My heart dropped into my stomach. The bar fell silent, the once-friendly chatter replaced by an uneasy tension.
“Underage workers?” Caleb’s dad said, his voice steady but his posture rigid. “We’re just running an honest business here. Who’d give you that kind of information?”
The officer didn’t answer, pulling out a clipboard instead. “We’re going to need to speak to all employees and see some identification.”
Marie gave me a sharp look and nodded toward the kitchen. “Go,” she mouthed.
I froze, unsure whether to obey, but Caleb’s dad noticed. “Don’t move,” he barked. “We’ve got nothing to hide.”
One of the officers approached me. “Name?”
“Emma,” I said quietly, my throat dry. “Emma Carter.”
He glanced at my face, then down at the ID I handed him. His eyes narrowed. “You’re not twenty-one.”
“I’m just waitressing,” I said quickly. “I don’t serve alcohol.”
“That doesn’t matter,” the officer said, flipping through his notes. “This is a licensed establishment. Employment laws still apply.”
The officers began questioning everyone, their voices calm but firm. Caleb stormed in from the back, his eyes darting to me and then to his dad. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.