Chapter 2

The next day, a nagging annoyance followed me around like a shadow. I replayed the conversation with Mrs. Jenkins in my head, my anger mixing with a strange sense of disillusionment. Had I been that blind? Had all her years of "kindness" been a long-con, waiting for the right moment to cash in?

I was working from home, trying to focus on a transition plan for my team, when my building's front desk buzzed.

"Ms. Miller, a Mrs. Jenkins is here to see you. She says she has something for you."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "I told her not to come back. Please tell her to leave."

"She's very insistent, ma'am. She says it's important."

I groaned in frustration. I didn't want a scene in the lobby. "Fine. Send her up. But just for five minutes."

A few minutes later, my doorbell rang. I opened it to find Mrs. Jenkins standing there, a large, expensive-looking designer handbag clutched in her hands. Her face was arranged in a look of sorrowful apology.

"Sarah, I am so, so sorry about yesterday," she began, her voice thick with fake emotion. "I wasn't myself. I was just scared about the future. I brought you something. To make up for it."

She held out the purse. It was a popular, high-end brand, one I'd casually mentioned liking months ago.

I stared at it, then at her. "I don't want it, Mrs. Jenkins."

"Please, just take it," she pleaded. "I saw it and thought of you. It cost me a fortune, but I wanted to show you I'm sorry."

I was suspicious, but I was also exhausted and wanted her gone. "Fine. Thank you. Now, you really need to go."

"Of course, dear," she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "There's just one little thing. I had to put it on my credit card, and things are a little tight. It was two thousand dollars. If you could just Zelle me the money, it would be a huge help."

A cold knot formed in my stomach. Two thousand dollars. The bag was expensive, but I was fairly certain it wasn't that expensive. She wasn't giving me a gift, she was trying to scam me.

"Two thousand?" I asked, my voice dangerously neutral. "That seems high for that model."

"Oh, it's the latest one! Very exclusive," she insisted, her eyes darting around nervously. "I got it from the boutique on Fifth Avenue."

The lie was too smooth, too practiced. My initial naivete had been burned away by our last conversation. I was not the same trusting person I was 24 hours ago.

"You know, I appreciate the gesture, but I can't accept this," I said, holding the bag out to her.

Her face fell. "But why not? I thought you'd love it!"

"Because you're lying to me, Mrs. Jenkins," I said calmly. "You're trying to make a profit off your 'apology gift'."

"How dare you!" she gasped, clutching her chest. "After all I've done for you! I go out of my way to buy you something beautiful, and you accuse me of being a thief! You've become so cynical, Sarah. This money, this success, it's changed you."

There it was again. The emotional manipulation, the attempt to twist the situation and make me the bad guy. I wasn't falling for it this time.

"It's a simple fix," I said, my gaze unwavering. "Show me the receipt. Show me the credit card statement that says you paid two thousand dollars for this bag."

Panic flashed in her eyes. "I... I don't have it on me. I must have thrown it away."

"You bought a two-thousand-dollar handbag and didn't keep the receipt?" I challenged. "That doesn't sound right. You can pull it up on your phone, can't you? The boutique would have emailed it to you. Or you can show me the charge in your banking app."

She stammered, her face turning red. "This is an interrogation! I don't have to prove anything to you!"

"If you want two thousand dollars from me, you do," I said, my patience gone. I walked over to my own purse, pulled out my phone, and quickly searched for the bag on the brand's official website. It took me ten seconds.

I turned the phone around to face her. The screen showed the exact same handbag. The price was clearly listed.

"Seven hundred and fifty dollars," I read aloud. "That's the retail price, Mrs. Jenkins. Seven-fifty. Not two thousand."

The color drained from her face. She was caught, and she knew it. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the city traffic below.

"You were trying to cheat me out of twelve hundred and fifty dollars," I said, my voice low and filled with contempt. "After I fired you for trying to extort my condo, you came back and tried to run a petty scam on me."

She snatched the handbag from my hands, her face contorted with fury.

"Fine! Keep your money! I don't want anything from you!"

"Good," I said, stepping back and pointing toward the door. "Because you're not getting anything. This bag is your property. My home is my property. My money is my money. You are not entitled to any of it. Now get out."

She stared at me, her eyes filled with a hatred that was shocking in its intensity. Then, without another word, she turned and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the frame shuddered. I was left alone in the quiet of my apartment, the ghost of her greed hanging in the air.